Harriet
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: The Dream Team are opposite genders: Begins in fourth year, but with a few twists; Harriet takes private lessons from Dumbledore as well as having been entered in the Tournament against the boy she has a crush on, Cedric Diggory . Rated T. Please review!
1. The Scar

**A.N.**: I got inspired after seeing HP 6 the second time, and I thought how different would the characters be if they were opposite genders. At first, I was going to have the whole HP generation the opposite gender, but then I thought 'I don't like Ginny and Harry together' so I thought, instead of everyone, just Harry, Ron, Hermione and Neville are opposite genders. (Obviously Neville needed to be, too, because of the prophecy).

So the characters are named thus;

**Harry**: Harriet Lily Potter

**Ron**: Rhona (which is a variation of the feminine form of Ronald)

**Hermione**: Hermes, sticking with Greek mythology.

**Neville**: Norah Longbottom. I couldn't think of a pretty N_e-_ name for a girl.

**Disclaimer**: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER. NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT INTENDED: THIS IS SOLELY FOR MY OWN ENJOYMENT AND OVERACTIVE IMAGINATION!!!

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**The Scar**

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...Two hundred miles away, the girl called Harriet Potter woke with a start...

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Harriet lay flat on her back, breathing hard, dripping with cold-sweat and shivering violently. She had woken with her hands pressed over her face, as if to smother screams: The thin, lightening-bolt scar on the left-side of her forehead burned angrily as if she had just been branded with it. She sat up, moaning softly: _Some dream that was_, she thought, still clutching her face with one hand and reaching blindly for her glasses and slipped them on. The feel of the glasses was familiar to her, comforting; now, able to see, and see clearly that she sat in her little bed in her cousin Daisy's second-bedroom, which was illuminated by a faint orange glow both from a streetlamp outside her window and the luminous alarm-clock Daisy had pitched through the window last month (which Harriet had salvaged and repaired on the sly) her heartbeat returned to its normal pace.

She cringed as she snapped the lamp on her desk on and squinted in the bright light; she climbed out of bed and tiptoed over to the wardrobe; she opened the door, and peered into the little mirror on the inside of the door.

A skinny girl of fourteen looked back at her, her face pale and glistening with sweat that made her shiver; enormous almond-shaped eyes like fiery emeralds stared back at her, still unnerved by the dream, and she pushed her perpetually untidy black hair out of her face, revealing the scar on her forehead. Despite the stinging, the scar looked perfectly normal—as perfectly normal as a curse-scar given to her by the most feared dark wizard in the world when she was but a toddler could be.

She tried to remember what she had been dreaming before she woke—she always found it so difficult to remember her dreams: she frowned at her reflection, and the darkness looming around her in the background reminded her of the dark, dismal black room, lit only by a small fire, which glistened off the skin of a fearsome snake coiled on a threadbare hearth-rug. There was a man named Peter, nicknamed Wormtail by those who had once been his best-friends before he betrayed them all, and a high, cold voice that sent shivers down Harriet's spine as she remembered it. The voice of Lord Voldemort.

Who was the old man—because there had _definitely_ been an old man, absolutely terrified. Harriet had watched him fall to the ground, dead before he hit the dusty floorboards. She knew Wormtail and Lord Voldemort had been talking about having killed someone—a woman; she couldn't remember the name, now—and plotting to kill someone _else_.

No-one would win any prizes for guessing _who_. It had been her, Harriet, whom they were planning to murder. She pressed her hands to her face, then released it, staring around her bedroom, as if expecting mad axmen to jump out of the corners. Any sign of anything abnormal.

As it was, there were several abnormal things about Harriet Potter's bedroom (or rather, her cousin Daisy Dursley's bedroom, which had been given to Harriet in an attempt to assuage her curiosity three years ago at numerous letters being sent to her from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry). An old-fashioned steamer trunk stood open at the foot of her bed, revealing an International-standard racing broomstick, sets of billowing black robes and stacks of spellbooks, rolls of parchment, bottles of ink and feather quills. The surface of her untidy desk not taken up by a large cage, which usually held Harriet's lovely snowy owl Hedwig, was littered with scrap parchment and a select few photographs of the parents she had never known—Lily and James Potter; Lord Voldemort, who had been plotting not seconds ago to kill Harriet, had murdered her parents now thirteen years ago, when she was but a year old.

On the floor beside Harriet's bed was a book: the pictures in this book were all moving, and showed seven women in dark green robes with a golden talon splashed across their chests, zooming in and out of the frames on shining broomsticks, passing a large red ball to each other, dodging black cannon-like balls. She had been reading before she fell asleep; it must've slipped out of her hands. She watched the Seeker of the _Holyhead Harpies_ (her favourite team, which annoyed Rhona because she was the _Chudley Cannons_' biggest supporter) make a superlative catch of the tiny, glimmering golden snitch, then slammed the book shut with soft squeals from the people in the photographs. Even Quidditch, in Harriet's opinion the best sport in the world, couldn't lift her mood now. She placed _Flying with the Harpies_ on her bedside table, careful not to nudge the photograph of her parents' wedding-day (her godfather Sirius Black, handsome and grinning carelessly beside her mother) already resting under the lamp.

She went to her window, quietly opening the curtains and the window, and gasped softly as the cool breeze wafted comfortingly across her face, drying the sweat still lingering there. There was nothing stirring outside—the breeze wasn't even strong enough to move the few sparse trees placed specifically around the quiet, respectable suburban neighbourhood; as far as she could see, there was nothing there that shouldn't be: the bins for recycling were set out at the ends of the driveways but it would be hours 'til the rubbish was collected. Every window was curtained and the only lights on were the streetlamps that alleviated her worries that Lord Voldemort was lurking by the entrance to Magnolia Crescent. And yet…her scar burned. The last time her scar had burned with such intensity (three years ago, at the end of her first year at Hogwarts) it had been because Lord Voldemort was close by.

She jumped, clutching her heart (which had stopped for a few seconds) as her uncle, beefy, purple-faced Uncle Vernon, gave an enormous grunting snore in the bedroom at the end of the hall. _You're just being paranoid_, Harriet told herself. _There's no-one here but Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Daisy. Get a grip!_ Aunt Petunia would be the first person to notice a stranger in her home—her horsy nose seemed tuned to pick up dirt tracked over her pristine linoleum floor in the kitchen: she would know if someone hadn't taken their shoes off upon entering the house.

Asleep was the way Harriet liked her only-living-relatives best—they were Muggles, who held a very medieval view of sorcery, which meant Harriet, as a witch soon to be entering her fourth year of tutelage at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was about as welcome as that dirt on a burglar's shoe…But it was comforting to know that they were here, too.

Of course, she would have preferred to live with her godfather—who, in the one evening Harriet had known him before helping him escape on the wings of a condemned Hippogriff, had shown her in that time more about what it meant to be a guardian than the Dursleys had in thirteen years. She sighed sadly and rubbed her scar absently as it twinged, as if wanting to remind her it was still there.

If she was having dreams about Voldemort, surely that couldn't be at all good. She bit her lip and glanced at the photograph of her two best-friends on her desk—Rhona Weasley and Hermes Granger, their arms thrown around her and grinning manically—next to several birthday cards she had been sent at the end of July, and wondered whether she ought to write to them and tell them what she'd seen. She sighed; she could imagine Hermes' panic-stricken face now, and his voice filled her head, anxious; '_Your scar hurt, Harriet! That's really, _really_ serious! You should write to Professor Dumbledore about it. And I'll go and check _Magical Ailments and Afflictions.' That would be Hermes' reaction: to seek solace in a book. That was his way, and usually they always came out the better in a situation for his bookworm tendencies.

But to write to Professor Dumbledore about something as trivial as her scar waking her up in the middle of the night seemed foolish—Professor Dumbledore was the greatest wizard in the world: surely he didn't just sit at home during the summer holidays twiddling his thumbs and waiting for pubescent teenaged girls to write to him about a scar burning—she had no idea where he even _went_ for his holidays: Harriet grinned to herself as the sudden image of Professor Dumbledore—who always gave off the impression of great energy and serenity at the same time, despite his questionable age—sitting on the beach with a pair of hibiscus-printed swimming shorts, rubbing suntan oil onto his long, crooked nose. Harriet didn't doubt Hedwig would know where to find him—her owl was uncommonly intelligent and tended to fly to her friends' houses in demand of letters and presents for Harriet (last year she had flown to France to Hermes with the specific goal of bringing back something for her thirteenth birthday)—but what on earth would she write. '_Dear Professor. Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt—I thought you'd like to know. Harriet._'

So she tried a different tact; she tried to imagine the reaction of her first ever friend, Rhona Weasley, the only daughter of a family of six children. Even in Harriet's imagination, Rhona's freckles went white—'_Your _scar_ hurt. But—but—You Know Who can't be near you _now_, can he? I mean…You'd know, wouldn't you? He'd be tryin' to do you in again. Maybe curse-scars always twinge a bit, 'specially if they're really dark magic. I'll ask dad, or Bill—yeah, Bill'll know._' Mr Weasley, Rhona's father, and her eldest brother Bill, whom Harriet had never met but knew worked as a Curse-Breaker for Gringott's Bank in Egypt, were both fully-qualified wizards. Harriet thought it far more likely that Bill would know, rather than Mr Weasley, who worked in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office at the Ministry of Magic.

And anyway, Harriet didn't particularly fancy the idea of having the entire Weasley family (eight members, when including the second-eldest brother, Charlie, who worked with dragons in Romania, and whom Harriet had also never met, Percy, the trouble-making twins Fred and George, and Rhona) knowing about her scar hurting—Mrs Weasley would probably have a fit and try and hug the life right out of Harriet. (She was rightly under the impression that Harriet had been under-loved in childhood, and was trying to make up for Harriet being motherless). Fred and George, Rhona's sixteen-year-old twin brothers would claim Harriet (who was the toughest girl they'd ever met) was losing her nerve.

Despite the amount of fuss Mrs Weasley focused on Harriet whenever she went to stay there, she loved The Burrow: she loved the entire Weasley family, except perhaps Percy, who was a bit pompous and a great believer in following the rules, and the twins never let a day go past without them all laughing. Rhona had mentioned something to Harriet on the train back from Hogwarts in June, about inviting Harriet to stay over the summer—for the Quidditch World Cup. But she knew if she even mentioned to Rhona that her scar was hurting, it would get back to Mrs Weasley within minutes, and she hardly wanted any future visit to The Burrow to be ruined by constant inquiries about the state of her scar.

What she really wanted was someone like…someone like… a _parent_. Here at Privet Drive, Harriet had never been welcomed as a member of the Dursley family. Until she was eleven years old, she had been hidden in the cupboard under the stairs, especially during special occasions. And as lovely as Mrs Weasley was, she fussed too much. Harriet needed somebody—an adult wizard whose advice she could ask without feeling like a numpty. Someone who cared about her unquestioningly and who had her best interests at heart, and someone who had experience with dark magic. Someone like… Harriet caught sight of herself smiling in the reflection of the window.

Someone like _Sirius_.

It wasn't entirely surprising it had taken Harriet so long to think of this solution—after all, until two months ago she hadn't even met her godfather: he had been imprisoned in the Wizard Prison Azkaban for crimes he didn't commit. Of course, only Professor Dumbledore believed their story, after hearing out what Sirius had to say in the Shrieking Shack, seeing Ronnie's pet rat Scabbers morph into a fully-grown man whom everyone in the Wizarding world thought dead.

Sirius had offered Harriet a home, once his name was cleared: Pettigrew had escaped, however, and Sirius was on the run from the Ministry of Magic. Harriet thought a lot about that home—the one Sirius had offered. An orphan, she had spent most of her childhood thinking about what her life _might_ have been like if only her parents hadn't died (the Dursleys had fed her a lie that her parents had been killed in a car accident) and she still found herself daydreaming sometimes, when she was watering Aunt Petunia's flowers or mowing the lawn or making the dinner, what it would have been like to live with her godfather, who had escaped Azkaban and risked everything to protect her. It had been horrendously difficult to return to the Dursleys this summer, with the knowledge that she could possibly have _never_ had to see them again.

It was down to Sirius, though, that Harriet had access to her schoolbooks and belongings: every summer prior, the Dursleys had locked even the most innocent of her possessions in the cupboard under the stairs that had once been her home: once they found out the insane mass-murderer they'd seen on the television last summer was her godfather (she'd 'forgotten' to tell her aunt and uncle he was innocent) their attitude toward keeping Harriet as downtrodden and miserable as possible had changed considerably. They still ignored her whenever she entered a room, but at least she could do her homework in the daylight rather than huddling under her duvet with a torch at midnight. In both of the two letters Sirius had sent her through late-June and early-July (they had arrived by way of enormous, brightly-coloured tropical birds that put Harriet in mind of palm trees and a sort of…Jack Sparrow-esque vision of her godfather on white sands—Daisy had allowed her to sit in the living-room while she watched_ Pirates of the Caribbean_ in the living-room yesterday) he had reminded her to call on him if she ever had the need.

She sat down at her desk and read briefly the letter she had received in reply to a note she'd sent to Cedric Diggory in the beginning of July.

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_Dear Harriet,_

_I was really surprised by your letter—I thought you might hate me for what happened at the match, but I'm glad you don't hold a grudge like some of your team-mates. My summer has been alright so far; we went to the Black Forest for two weeks, and I met a__ few German wizard students who I'm now trading letters with._

_I don't know whether you know about this, living with Muggles and all, but the Quidditch World Cup is being held this summer. My father managed to get us two tickets to see the Final; it's being held in England for the first time in thir__ty years, so it'll probably be something to see!_

_I saw the Weasley twins a few days ago in Ottery St Catchpole (we both live near that Muggle village) and they mentioned their dad also got hold of a load of tickets. I'm not sure, but perhaps I'll see you there?__ I know you're very friendly with Rhona Weasley. Anyway, if I don't see you at the match, I know I'll see you back at Hogwarts._

_I hope to hear from you again soon,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_Cedric_

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By the time her bedroom walls were gilded with gold of a just-risen sun, and sounds of movement issued from Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's bedroom, Harriet blew gently on the glistening midnight-navy ink and reread the letter.

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_Dear Sirius,_

_Thanks for your last letter—that bird was absolutely fantastic! It barely got through my bedroom-window, and it left quite a few feathers behind (I've kept them in a vase on my bedside table because they're so pretty). Everything in Privet Drive is exactly as it has always been—Aunt Petunia just told us at dinner last night that Mr Next-Door in Number 7 has another family in Chelsea, (and the 'little tart sent [Mrs Next-Door] a letter'!) and Uncle Vernon landed a big deal at his firm Grunnings._

_Daisy's diet is going from bad to worse __(Aunt Petunia caught her outside the Ice-cream van yesterday buying a 99 Flake ice-cream on the way home from the supermarket). Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon told her they'd have to cut her pocket-money if she kept doing it (she's already having to get special uniforms for her school because she's so large) and she got angry and threw the television they got her for her birthday through her bedroom window._

_She's a bit of a numpty, really, as now she doesn't have anything to watch those new DVDs Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon got her in her bedroom. (DVDs are these weird silvery disc things, kind of like little shiny records, that contain Muggle films on them so you can watch them any time without having to wind on the film. They're actually pretty cool, although Daisy likes watching mushy romantic films that make me gag.)_

_I'm alright—the Dursleys don't pay much attention to me 'cos they're afraid you'll come and hack them to pieces if they upset me! (I 'forgot' to mention to them you're innocent!) The reason I'm writing this at three a.m. is 'cos a weird thing happened—my scar woke me up, burning. Last time my scar hurt, it was 'cos Voldemort was living in the back of my old Defence teacher's head. But I don't think he'd be anywhere near me now, can he?_

_D__o you know whether curse-scars twinge a bit, years afterwards?_

_Hedwig is off hunting at the moment, so I'll have to wait to send this to you, but say hello to Buckbeak for me when you get this,_

_All my love,_

_Harriet Lily_.

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She had only recently starting signing her letters with her middle name. It was the only thing her mother had left her. That and an aunt who probably wished Harriet had been killed along with her parents. But Harriet could hardly blame her mother for the way Aunt Petunia had turned out—as Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon's moustached sister, had once said, 'they turn up in the best families.'

She ran her hand through her perpetually tousled black hair, sitting back against the back of her chair, and wondered whether she ought to have put in the bit about the dream—but then, how reliable could a dream be, anyway? She could barely remember most of it now, now that the sun shone and the sounds of people everywhere were beginning to wake up the world.

With the sun shining, it was a lot more difficult to be afraid of Lord Voldemort.

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**A.N.**: Please review :D

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	2. The Invitation

**A.N.**: Another chapter, even though there weren't any reviews (HINT!)

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**The Invitation**

By the time Harriet reached the kitchen, Uncle Vernon's new company car was pulling out of the driveway and Aunt Petunia and Daisy sat at the kitchen table: Aunt Petunia had cut up a grapefruit. After returning from her own boarding-school at the beginning of the summer, Daisy's parents had brushed aside the accusations of bullying and gave excuses for Daisy's horrendously poor marks; not even Aunt Petunia, however, could ignore the few choice words written by the school nurse: when it came down to it, the school outfitters just didn't supply skirts and blouses large enough for Daisy, who this summer had finally achieved the goal she had been aiming for since the age of three in becoming wider than she was tall.

Even now, Daisy's bottom drooped either side of her chair at the kitchen table, taking up one side of the square table: Aunt Petunia, in striking contrast, was skinny as a rake, with a horsy face and bony limbs. She sat very primly, sipping a little white espresso cup with her little finger sticking out, the little saucer held beneath the cup. It was very quiet, and Harriet sat down soundlessly beside her cousin; a place was set for her only out of habit, and she eyed her grapefruit slice without complaint: Aunt Petunia had made the announcement at the beginning of the summer, that if Daisy had to diet, so did the rest of the family—Uncle Vernon had taken to leaving for work early to catch breakfast at the bakery opposite his drill firm, Grunnings (Harriet knew this because, forced to clean Uncle Vernon's car every Sunday evening, she had uncovered several wrappers laced with icing in the backseat of her uncle's car).

Harriet, too, was following the Regime no more than Uncle Vernon was—at the beginning of the summer, when she had discovered she would have to live off carrot sticks and cottage cheese, she had sent emergency _S.O.S._ letters to all of her friends, who had all risen to the occasion magnificently: Rhona's mother, Mrs Weasley, was perhaps the best cook in the entire world, and the Weasley family owl, Errol, had had to remain at the Dursleys' for five days before he was fit to make the return flight: Hermes' parents, who were both dentists, had sent her a huge care-package full of sugar-free snacks, and aside from a large sack of homemade cauldron-cakes, Hogwarts Gamekeeper Hagrid had sent her a crate of Butterbeer bottles. _And_, one week ago on Harriet's fourteenth birthday, she had received _four_ enormous birthday cakes (which amounted to more than she'd ever had before in her entire life combined) from the Weasleys, Hermes, Hagrid and Sirius.

Aunt Petunia had no idea about this, of course; Harriet feared that if Daisy got one whiff of chocolate icing while passing Harriet's room, the contents of the space beneath the conveniently-loosened floorboard under Harriet's bed would be released and eaten with minutes.

The doorbell rang, and Aunt Petunia set her coffee-cup down with a soft _chink_ and smoothed her skirt as she stood up, stalking to the front-door. Quick as a flash, ignoring Harriet's disapproving tut, Daisy had whipped the remainder of Aunt Petunia's segment of grapefruit from her bowl and devoured it with her own. Harriet finished her own grapefruit, images of the sticky caramel-pecan double-caramel cake Sirius had sent her (which, he had written in the note attached to her birthday present, had been a favourite of her father's, especially when made with her grandmother's secret special recipe) and which she had yet to sample. She was still on the raspberry-mousse, biscuit-bottomed cake Hermes had sent all the way from France (he and his parents spent two weeks in the Dordogne every summer in a renovated farmhouse) with a gorgeous selection of fresh berries on top.

She heard an amused male voice and Aunt Petunia's somewhat crisp laugh, as if not really amused at all (which was Aunt Petunia's best laugh, reserved for company) and the door closed again. There came the sound of ripping paper and Aunt Petunia came into the kitchen looking white-faced, two envelopes in her bony fingers: one, Harriet couldn't help grin at the sight, was covered all over with postage-stamps. Aunt Petunia had taken the safer-looking of the two but even as Aunt Petunia sank weakly into her chair and set the ripped envelope on the table, Harriet noticed the swirling handwriting immediately.

_Why would Professor Dumbledore be writing to her?_ she wondered, somewhat awed. She got up and put the kettle on, having already finished her grapefruit (to Daisy's annoyance) and watched Aunt Petunia covertly as she read Professor Dumbledore's letter. She finished reading it, tucked it back into its envelope, and went on to the second letter—the one covered in stamps.

"Daisy, go upstairs," Aunt Petunia said after she had finished the second letter, and Daisy stared at her mother: tensions had already been high between the other two female residents of Number 4, all down to Daisy's diet, but before this summer Daisy had never known herself to be denied anything by her parents, ever. Harriet was on the other end of the spectrum; until Hogwarts, she had regularly been denied sunlight and fresh air for weeks on end.

"_What_?"

"Go upstairs. I need to talk to Harriet," Aunt Petunia said tersely, as Harriet set a great mug of tea in front of her cousin and Aunt Petunia's favourite teacup in front of her aunt, going back to the counter to take hold of her own little mug. Even Harriet was caught by surprise by this announcement. Daisy set her unpleasant, piggy face in a horrible glower (horrible because it brought out all five chins) and heaved herself out of her chair, waddling in too-tight jeans to the kitchen door. She bumped against Harriet so roughly Harriet (at not even a quarter of Daisy's weight) was almost knocked off her feet.

Harriet waited. It was never good to ask Aunt Petunia questions: that had been one of the many rules to growing up peacefully in the Dursleys' house—until she'd started Hogwarts, that was—she wasn't allowed to ask questions. Uncle Vernon was of a different tact and grabbed the bull by the horns and tended to bellow as loudly as if he'd been gored by them. He particularly loved bellowing at Harriet. Daisy reached the staircase and they all heard the creak of the stairs as she hauled herself up; the creaking stopped at the top, and Harriet knew she was hoping to eavesdrop. Aunt Petunia closed the kitchen door with a snap.

"At ten p.m. tomorrow evening, Professor Dumbledore will be arriving to take you to your friends' house—the Weasleys," Aunt Petunia said, checking the second letter with a white-lipped frown. "Apparently _Mr_ Weasley has come across rather spectacular tickets to the _Qwu-uh-id-ditch_ World Cup final, and you have been invited to go along, and to spend the remainder of your summer holiday with them."

"And you're letting me go?" Harriet blurted, her eyebrows raised in surprise. Since when did the Dursleys ever do anything to encourage or help Harriet being happy? It would have given Uncle Vernon great pleasure to see Harriet so disappointed about missing out on something like the Quidditch World Cup Final. But then, Harriet reasoned with herself, Uncle Vernon wasn't home.

"What _is_ Quidditch?" Aunt Petunia demanded, frowning dangerously. Harriet chose her words carefully; any mention of her 'abnormality' under Uncle Vernon's roof was strictly punished.

"It's…a sport," Harriet said. "_My_ kind of sport. I play it at school." Aunt Petunia's cheeks hollowed as she clenched her jaw; even that veiled hint had tested her limit. "Professor Dumbledore's coming _here_?"

"Yes. We're going out. Go and get dressed," Aunt Petunia snapped, reaching for her handbag on the counter. Harriet glanced down.

"I _am_ dressed," she said tersely. Ever since she was a baby, she had been forced to wear Daisy's hand-me-downs. She wore one of Daisy's tent-like dresses this morning; it was so large that Harriet had to wrap one of Daisy's old belts three times around her slender waist to keep the voluminous folds of extra fabric in place where she'd neatly folded them at her sides. The skirt and the fabric over her chest sagged unpleasantly in the wrong places and made her seem a lot older and frumpier than she was—but if the dress hadn't been so poorly fitted, the fabric—an amber-yellow floral print that was the sunniest and most-cheerful piece of clothing Daisy had ever deigned to reject into the Harriet pile—might have been a lot prettier.

"Go and put on something _nicer_," Aunt Petunia said testily, and suddenly the sharp eyes that picked out every sordid detail in the lives of the boring neighbours and fingerprints on her pristine walls was calculating every square inch of Harriet's appearance.

She might have noticed the hot flush in Harriet's cheeks that came partly out of embarrassment but mostly out of shame, when Harriet glared at the floor, humiliated, and said quietly, "This _is_ the nicest thing I have." Aunt Petunia didn't comment, but called up to Daisy that they were going out, and did she want to come along.

Daisy took so long to get ready that Harriet had time to go upstairs. Back in her bedroom, Harriet was greeted by a soft, familiar hoot, and rolled over to smile groggily at the blurry white figure of her loyal owl, Hedwig, perching on the back of her desk-chair. She clicked her beak in annoyance, and her amber eyes followed something in the centre of the ceiling. Harriet glanced up and her eyebrows flickered upwards.

A tiny, feathery grey tennis-ball was zooming around the lampshade, making high-pitched, hyperactive hoots. It wasn't a tennis-ball, Harriet realised, but a minute owl, which started whizzing excitedly around her bedroom like a loose firework the moment it saw she was awake. Harriet realised it must have dropped the tiny-furled scroll on her duvet, and scooped it up. She undid the seal and unfurled the scroll, grinning when she instantly recognised the untidy handwriting of her best-friend.

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_Hetty!—DAD GOT THE TICKETS!!!!!—Ireland versus Bulgaria on Monday night, the final! Mum wrote to your Muggles to ask you to stay—they might have already got the letter, but I thought I'd send Pig_—(Harriet glanced up at the tiny owl, frowned, and went back to the letter, wondering if she had misread Rhona's writing; she couldn't think of anything that looked less like a pig than that owl)—_just in case; we don't know how long Muggle post takes._

_Dumbledore's__ coming for you anyway, even if the Muggles don't want you to come; you __can't__ miss the World Cup! Only, Mum reckoned we should probably be polite and considerate about their opinions and ask them first. If they say yes, send Pig back with your answer, and Mum says Dumbledore will collect you at ten p.m. on Sunday. If they say no, Dumbledore will collect you at 10 p.m. anyway!_

_Hermes gets here this afternoon: Percy's started work, in the Department of International Magical Co-Operation. Don't mention anything about Abroad while you're here unless you want the bra bored off you!_

_Hope to see you soon—WE'RE GOING TO THE WORLD CUP!!!—Rhona_.

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"You need Ritalin," Harriet sighed, grabbing 'Pig' out of the air with her stunning reflexes and wondering how Uncle Vernon hadn't heard Pig's hyperactive, overexcited twitters. "Alright, I'll write a letter back to Rhona. Stay _still_."

Pig let out a little twitter, as if he couldn't help it, and settled, shivering, on Harriet's duvet.

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_Rhona,_

_I'M COMING WITH YOU!!!! YAAAAAAY!!!! Aunt Petunia says I can come. Must be nervous about Dumbledore coming here, or else she'd've let Uncle Vernon deal with me._

_See you around midnight tomorrow! Can't wait!_

_Harriet_

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Harriet folded it into as tiny a square as she could, and had difficult attaching it to Pig's leg, who was so excited at another delivery that he kept hopping on the spot. As soon as the letter was attached, Pig zoomed out of the window and out of sight. Harriet turned to Hedwig, smiling.

"Up for a long journey?" she asked. Hedwig hooted softly and Harriet went to her desk, sitting down and tugging Sirius' letter towards her, dipping her quill into her ink pot, which was almost out, and added a post-script to the end of the letter.

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—_P.S.: Sirius, this morning my aunt got two letters; one of them was from Professor Dumbledore, and he's going to collect me tomorrow night to take me to my friend Rhona Weasley's house (you met her—the redhead girl. Pettigrew was her pet, 'Scabbers'). I've been invited to stay with them for the rest of the summer, and Mr Weasley has tickets to the Quidditch World Cup final. The final—can you imagine! I've never seen a professional game before. If you need to reach me, I'll be at The Burrow, near Ottery St Catchpole._

_Love, again, Harriet._

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She sealed the letter and tied it to Hedwig's leg, who remained perfectly still, showing Harriet just how a proper post-owl should behave, who spread her wings, hooted softly around the letter, and with a soft _swoosh_ departed through the bedroom-window. She rejoined her aunt and cousin in the downstairs hall and they made their way outside, to the little silver Peugeot in the garage, which Aunt Petunia rarely used except for doing the grocery shopping.

Harriet knew better than to expect any kind of special treatment from Aunt Petunia. So she didn't know whether she should be pleasantly surprised or wary when her aunt parked the car in the multi-storey car-park of the shopping centre and declared she was taking Harriet shopping for new clothes. This made Daisy splutter indignantly, as she had been waiting for a week for her mother to take her shopping, but Aunt Petunia ignored her.

Harriet couldn't help wondering whether Professor Dumbledore's imminent visit hadn't scared Aunt Petunia into feeling extremely guilty for neglecting Harriet all her life. It led to Harriet sitting in a cushioned black seat in an optician's office, having her eyes tested, Aunt Petunia asking about new glasses and the possibility of Harriet wearing contact-lenses. The optician said the reason her eyesight was deteriorating so terribly was because her glasses were far too strong for her eyesight and they were trying to compensate, and she helped Harriet pick out a brand-new pair of glasses (which were wireless, rectangular, with thin lenses and felt to Harriet as if she wasn't even wearing them because they were so light) and she worked out which lenses would be most suitable for Harriet. _Dailies_ were settled upon, and Aunt Petunia said she would collect a monthly supply for her and send it off to her at "boarding school."

New glasses weren't the only new things Harriet got that day. Aunt Petunia took her to several Muggle teen clothing shops and bought her brand-new things—a few t-shirts, a pair of fitted dark jeans, two very pretty tops, a fake leather jacket, two jumpers that were really soft inside, a nice skirt, and then Aunt Petunia took her to _La Senza_, a lingerie shop that dealt in things that weren't quite to Aunt Petunia's taste.

Harriet had noticed, too, when trying on clothing actually made to fit her figure, rather than a baby elephant's, that she wasn't a little girl anymore. If she had noticed she had breasts before, she hadn't paid attention: Small and quite pretty in the right top, with room for improvement, but they were still there. She was somewhat embarrassed in _La Senza_: the sales assistant was smiling and forgiving, and picked out several pretty bras that Harriet might like, with two or three sports bras that would come in handy for Quidditch practices.

From seeing Harriet's eyes in her brand-new glasses, something had clicked in Aunt Petunia and Harriet found herself sitting in a tall white stool in the cosmetics department of Debenhams: Harriet knew there was never a morning when Aunt Petunia, even in a dressing-gown and slippers, wasn't wearing makeup and had her hair coiffed. The cosmetologist kept trying to cover Harriet's scar with concealer, but Aunt Petunia pointed out how stunning Harriet's emerald eyes were, and the woman turned instead to bringing out their beauty even further.

It seemed to Harriet that Aunt Petunia was trying to make her into a lady—or at least ensure that she looked so when Professor Dumbledore arrived. And, oddly, Harriet caught her aunt staring at her a few times, as if just realising Harriet was, indeed, a human-being. Loaded down with little pots of eyeshadow and pigment and eyeliner and tubes of mascara and lipgloss and shades of pretty lipstick (Daisy sulking) and their other purchases, they made their way back to Aunt Petunia's car.

It was still a very surreal experience for Harriet—so surreal that, as she sat in the front-seat of Aunt Petunia's car, she subtly pinched the side of her thigh. _Ow_. Yes, it hurt. So this wasn't a dream.

Uncle Vernon was red as a bull-dancer's cape when they got home, absolutely furious and fuming that they had not been at home to welcome him when he returned from work, and assumed (perhaps this was a good thing for Harriet) that the bags she was toting were in fact full of things for Daisy. For the first time, Daisy kept her mouth shut, still too shocked that she had gone out with her mother and returned home with absolutely nothing to show for it. Harriet ran upstairs to deposit her things on the bed, knowing it was best to stay out of Uncle Vernon's way when he was in a rage, especially when Daisy had the potential to add fat to the fire.

Upstairs, Harriet was left alone to sit and think, as she hadn't been able to all day. She rubbed her face vigorously, testing to see if it really was _real_. If it wasn't a dream, she could feel her face—and she could. Professor Dumbledore was coming to collect her

She looked around her room and noticed that she needed to tidy it. So she did. _What if Professor Dumbledore comes up here?_ she thought: She doubted he would, but nonetheless, she realised she should be a little bit more house-proud, and set to tidying her bedroom. She tidied the wardrobe and put all Daisy's old clothes on hangers, folded everything neatly in the dresser, and set about tidying her trunk. This took a lot longer than expected; she finally got down to the last few inches of _stuff_ in the bottom, which was coated with back-issues of _Witch Weekly_ and the _Quibbler_ (which always made for a good laugh) and chocolate-frog cards. _Wish I could use my wand_, Harriet thought, not for the first time; the bottom of her trunk could use a good scrub, but since she didn't exactly want to get kicked out of Hogwarts for using a simple _Scourgify_ charm, she settled herself to the idea of borrowing Aunt Petunia's handheld vacuum in the morning.

In a neat pile she collected her most prized possessions—her _Firebolt_, gift from her godfather, her Invisibility Cloak, which had belonged to her father, and _his_ father and so on, and the Marauder's Map—and used the broom tucked in the corner (Aunt Petunia had once used this bedroom as a sort of second broom-cupboard) to sweep the floor, sweeping the debris into the wastepaper basket in the corner of the room. She straightened the books on top of the dresser, put the little pots and bottles and tubes Aunt Petunia had bought her in a pretty cosmetics bag, threw away the scrap letters she had crumpled on her desk, and had sat on her bed to clean out her bedside cabinet when she fell asleep.

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**A.N.**: PLEASE REVIEW!!!

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	3. Back to the Burrow

**A.N.**: Even though there were _no reviews, _I'm in a forgiving mood, and have decided to add another chapter (I now have twenty-two written and saved) for those of you who have added me to Story Alert lists.

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**Back to the Burrow**

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Harriet spent most of the next day in her bedroom, safe away from Daisy, who was on the war-path after Aunt Petunia had made the note of announcing she'd reached the two-month mark in her diet: eating the last of her raspberry-mousse birthday cake for breakfast, then the caramel-walnut cake for lunch, and grinning over the fact that she could gorge on birthday cake, and would be stuffing herself with Mrs Weasley's excellent cooking for the next two weeks while Daisy would be surviving on carrot sticks and cottage cheese, she did something she rarely did: she _cleaned_.

In anticipation of Dumbledore's arrival, and the promise of spending the last two weeks of holiday at The Burrow, Harriet had completely cleaned out her bedroom, having nothing better to do with the adrenaline that came with her excitement. There was nothing on her bedroom walls now except a few photographs of Daisy as a toddler (which she had always kept covered with Gryffindor banners and a _Harpies_ flag) and everything had been cleaned so thoroughly even Aunt Petunia would be proud. Harriet had gained access to Aunt Petunia's vacuum and dustpan-and-brush and had reorganised her trunk four times. With Hedwig gone off to seek Sirius, she picked up Hedwig's empty, unclean cage, and made her way downstairs, outside to the dustbins. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon pointedly ignored her as she made her way through the house, but after a very tense dinner, Uncle Vernon started casting aspersions on Professor Dumbledore.

After hearing him question what kind of a 'crackpot old fool' Professor Dumbledore was, Harriet had had enough and decided that it was dangerous to be around her uncle, considering the last time anyone of _his_ family had insulted people Harriet held close to her heart, and went up to her bedroom. She sat staring at the second-hand alarm clock on her bedside cabinet, counting down the minutes. She cursed Aunt Petunia for serving their dinner of celery and cottage cheese at such an early hour on Sundays and eventually found herself lying sprawled on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, chewing on a chunk of the sticky caramel-pecan cake.

Finally, with nothing left to do, she reached back into her trunk to one of the birthday presents Sirius had sent her. It had come from somewhere in Africa, a handsome writing-box of shining ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, with emerald-green velvet and silk linings, secret compartments, a calligraphy set, a personalised seal and sticks of emerald-green wax, and a lock that only worked for the owner with a little silver key that Sirius had put on a delicate little chain for her. This gift, Sirius had noted in the birthday card he had sent her attached to the second present, an old Leica camera she could use at Hogwarts, was to encourage her to write longer letters (the camera was so she documented her time at Hogwarts, something Sirius promised she would come to regret if she didn't). Beneath the emerald-green velvet writing surface was a compartment in which Harriet had folded neatly all her letters and the photographs that didn't fit into the album Hagrid had given her two years ago.

She took the stack of letters out of the compartment and started rereading them. And then she realised the last letter—the one Hedwig had delivered only two nights ago—she still hadn't replied to. It was from Cedric Diggory.

He had written at the beginning of the summer, apologising again for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match in which he had caught the snitch seconds before realising a hundred Dementors had caused Harriet to fall off her broom fifty feet above the pitch. According to Rhona, Hermes, and the other six members of the Gryffindor team, Cedric had attempted to call of the catch and have a rematch when he'd realised what had happened.

It had started, not a friendship, but a casual correspondence that made Harriet anticipate every return letter. It was lovely having another person to add to her list of people she could write to. Rhona and Hermes were at the top of the list, Sirius next, and Hagrid after them. And she had sent one or two letters to Professor Lupin to wonder how he was getting on now that he wasn't at Hogwarts. But that was it. She perused Cedric's letter, smiling to herself softly, and took a sheaf of hot-pressed parchment paper from the supply in one of the drawers and dipped her quill back into the depleting supply of ink.

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_Dear Cedric,_

_It was lovely to hear from you again. __You were right—I've been invited to the Weasleys' for the rest of the summer, and to go and see the quidditch match. I'm really excited—I haven't seen a professional game before—you were right, guessing about that, too!_

_What was the Black Forest like? I__s it anything as creepy as the Forbidden Forest? Don't Muggles go on holiday there, too? And what were those German students like? I never realised before there was another school besides Hogwarts. I suppose because the largest number of witches and wizards I've seen in any one place is Hogwarts, I forget that there must be wizards all over the world, and other schools._

_It's quite a bizarre thought, really.__ Until four summers ago, I never knew anything about our world. It's still strange to think there's another world hidden from the Muggle one. The World Cup should be absolutely amazing, I'm really excited!_

_Anyway, __I hope this gets to you in time, if not, I hope to see you at the final,_

_Yours,_

_Harriet_

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She tucked the letter into her overnight bag, in which she had put a fresh pair of pyjamas, her Leica camera, an extra few rolls of film, her Invisibility Cloak, _Flying with the Harpies_, her wand and her coin-purse, and glanced around her room, wondering what she should do now.

Eventually, anticipation wore her down and Harriet found herself lying sprawled on her bed. She couldn't stop _thinking_, though she was in a state of complete lethargy. Three times, she had plucked the letter to Cedric out of her bag, only to catch herself from ripping it up to rewrite it, and now she sat with her hands clamped under her bottom to stop herself from tearing the letter to shreds.

Cedric was, unfortunately, very handsome in person. She hadn't remembered this the first few letters she had sent back to him; his casual tone set her in mind that she was writing to Rhona or Hermes, but he had sent her a photograph of who she assumed were the German magic students he had met in the Black Forest. And he was _very_ handsome—almost as handsome as Sirius in the only photograph Harriet had of her godfather. Dark brunette and fair, lovely eyes, he had a very roguish, good-natured grin and was tall and perfect. _And_ he was an excellent Quidditch player and he was probably the _only_ boy in the world who would do anything as honourable as try and call off a fair win because the opponent had collapsed off her broom. He hadn't visited her in the Hospital Wing after it had happened, but Harriet liked to believe this was more out of concern for his own survival if he came too close to the rest of Harriet's bitterly disappointed team.

It was a shock when she realised it was ten o'clock exactly—she barrelled downstairs, a jolt going through her when she heard Uncle Vernon's short, rude bark and a very familiar voice answering, completely casual and light as ever. She burst into the living-room to find the three Dursleys settled on the sofa, whilst Professor Dumbledore—in a magnificent midnight-blue travelling cloak and constellation-studded hat—sat in Uncle Vernon's favourite armchair closest to the fire.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harriet blurted, then grinned, breathless. "You're here."

"Doubtful I would turn up, Harriet?" Professor Dumbledore chuckled knowingly. Harriet blushed.

"Well—I was waiting, and I must've lost track of time—I was writing a letter to Cedric Diggory," she said, and then she blushed again. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily. His light-hearted lectures on Inter-House cooperation were not forgotten by Harriet.

"You have been trading owls, then?" he smiled.

"Er…yeah. He sent me a letter at the beginning of the summer, apologising for the match," Harriet said, sidling into the room and taking her place on the other armchair, avoiding eye-contact with her relatives.

"Ah, Mr Diggory," Dumbledore chuckled happily. "Always the gentleman." Harriet nodded: she couldn't agree more. "Your aunt and I have just been discussing the state of the agapanthus," Professor Dumbledore said placidly, hands folded neatly in his lap over his long, shimmering silver beard. Harriet nodded, wondering if he wasn't telling the absolute truth: she glanced at Aunt Petunia and found her cheeks oddly flushed, staring at the floor. "However, the hour is late, and I think it best I do not encroach on your relatives' hospitality any longer, so therefore, my dear, let us depart. I shall wait for you in the hall, Harriet."

Harriet supposed he thought she might like to say goodbye to her aunt and uncle. He left the room after bidding her relatives goodbye and she heard him humming pleasantly to himself in the hall, and Harriet glanced at Uncle Vernon, who was purple, and Aunt Petunia, who was still pink about the cheeks, and Daisy, who looked confused.

"Um…Well, I suppose I'll see you next summer?" she said uneasily; Aunt Petunia may have nodded, or it may have just been Harriet's imagination. Either way, Harriet continued; "And, thank-you for yesterday, Aunt Petunia. Good luck at St Mary's, Daisy." And, not expecting any response and receiving none, Harriet made her way to the hall, where Dumbledore stood, hands clasped behind his back, examining the large family photograph of Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Daisy at the foot of the stairs, probably waiting for the figures to move.

"Er—Harriet." She whirled around, eyebrow quirked, and saw Aunt Petunia stepping tentatively over the threshold of the living-room, fiddling with her fingers. "Um… Have a good time at school…and… Write to—me." She had no sooner blurted this out breathlessly than she had disappeared back in the living-room, and Harriet, swearing she'd started hallucinating, turned slack-jawed to Professor Dumbledore.

He chuckled softly, opened the front door, and gestured Harriet outside. He stepped out too, and Harriet made to go and grab her trunk and Hedwig's cage from the bottom of the stairs, but they had vanished. "I have sent your belongings ahead to The Burrow, Harriet. We do not want to be encumbered with those just now."

"Oh. Alright."

Professor Dumbledore started walking towards the entrance of Privet Drive, his heeled shoes clicking on the pavement, and Harriet had to speed-walk to keep up with his long strides.

"Professor," she said quietly, frowning and biting her lip at the ground as she walked beside him. Professor Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles flashed in the light of the streetlamp as they passed beneath it and Harriet took a deep breath. "What did you say to my aunt?"

"What do you mean, Harriet?" Dumbledore asked gently.

"Well—she—she—Aunt Petunia—yesterday, she took me _shopping_ for new clothes and makeup and things," Harriet blurted, frowning even more. "She's _never_ done that before, and she agreed to let me stay at the Weasleys without any shouting or blackmail or anything."

"Ah," Professor Dumbledore said heavily, glancing at Harriet. "I must admit I did write a few strongly-worded sentences to your aunt. When I delivered you to the Dursleys' doorstep thirteen years ago, I asked your aunt to take you in as her own daughter… When I saw you at the Sorting Ceremony at the beginning of your first year, it was immediately clear to me that my wish—and consequently, the very wish of Petunia's own sister—was not met. I knew instantly the night I first saw you, that you have known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at the hands of your aunt and uncle. And, for this reason, I wrote to your aunt."

An odd sinking feeling made her stomach feel funny, and Harriet looked down sadly at the ground. "My interference makes you unhappy?" Professor Dumbledore asked quietly.

"It's just…well…I thought something like that might've happened," Harriet admitted in a mumble. Had she not thought that her aunt was trying to make up for the abominable treatment she had subjected Harriet to over the years, afraid of what Harriet might say when Dumbledore showed up at number four?

"But?" Dumbledore prompted, a sombre twinkle in his eyes.

"I…I wish she had done it…out of kindness," Harriet admitted, flushing with shame at the thought. She _wanted_ her mother's sister to like her, to be _good_ to her, if only because Harriet was her sister's daughter, and she'd had no one else in the world when she showed up on the doorstep of number 4, Privet Drive. "Kindness, not fear."

"How exceptionally like your mother you are becoming, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore said suddenly, with such emotion in his voice that his words might have broken, had he continued talking. They walked a few paces before he spoke again, Harriet's eyes intent on his wizened, familiar face. When he glanced at her again, his eyes were sparkling. "She, too, was uncommonly kind, even to those who perhaps did not deserve it… I had always thought you a little more like your dear father, I suppose, mostly, because of your certain, shall we say, _taste_ for breaking the rules," he chuckled and winked. Harriet beamed; she _loved_ hearing about her parents. She had never heard more about them than the night Sirius had uncovered Peter Pettigrew's ruse.

They walked a few more paces.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Harriet?"

"What do you _do_ during the summer?" Harriet asked. It had been bothering her for a while, since that vision of him rubbing sun-screen on his nose. "Do you go on holiday?"

"Oh, no," Professor Dumbledore sighed. "I'm afraid I am kept busy during the summer, with meetings and owls at all hours and all sorts of other dull business. I am hardly less needed during the summer than during the rest of the year, though I find the latter work far more gratifying. Yet all this work leaves me very little time to, as you say, 'go on holiday'." Harriet, who had never been on holiday in her life, unless she counted an odd week at Mrs Figg's when the Dursleys went away, sympathised.

"Oh. Bummer," Harriet said.

"Isn't it?" Dumbledore sighed. They had reached the end of Privet Drive, and Professor Dumbledore offered her his right arm. Harriet noticed in the lamplight that his left hand had an odd discolouration at the fingertips. "If you will take my arm, Harriet—grip it tight—I will transport us to the village of Ottery St Catchpole." Harriet glanced at Dumbledore's arm, but did as she was told, and Dumbledore smiled slightly at her apprehension. "I wish to Apparate us," he explained calmly. "As you are not yet of-age. Brooms would, I think, even in this weather, throw Mrs Weasley off her schedule, and I do not wish to deprive her the opportunity of feeding you a very large meal before bed." Harriet grinned.

"Aunt Petunia put us all on a diet when I got back to Privet Drive," she whispered confidentially. Professor Dumbledore tutted softly, offered his arm, and Harriet clutched it. She felt his arm twist away from him and redoubled her grip; the next thing she knew, the stars had been put out, and she couldn't breathe, the feeling of being pressed through a too-small tube, like iron bands being tightened around her chest; her eyes were forced back into her head, her eardrums strained painfully and then—

She spluttered, staggering to the side, gulping down great lungfuls of crisp, country air, opening her streaming eyes and wondering if she hadn't lost her contact lenses (she had worn them all day yesterday and today, but was still getting used to them).

"Oh my _god!_" she croaked, wiping her sodden cheeks.

"The feeling does take some getting used to," Professor Dumbledore said mildly, and Harriet glanced around, realising she stood in the charming little thatched village of Ottery St Catchpole. Old-fashioned gas lamps rigged with electricity burned in wide orange circles, illuminating the cobbled ground and the low brick-and-flint walls of gardens overflowing with summer flowers.

"I think I prefer brooms," Harriet said, walking back to Professor Dumbledore slowly, testing her knees.

"A common consensus, I assure you," Dumbledore smiled. "Now, let us make our way to The Burrow." Harriet followed Dumbledore's lead as they walked past the small village pub, which was still open but the doors were closed, only the windows illuminated with amber, a gentle stream trickling out the front, which owed to the little bridges outside each house on that side of the street before their gardens. She had never been to Ottery St Catchpole before, and she took in her surroundings; there was a large well, a beautiful horse-chestnut tree on the green, and a communal grinding-stone the villagers would have use to sharpen their blades years ago.

"There is a matter I wish to discuss with you, Harriet, before we reach The Burrow," Professor Dumbledore said quietly. But for the brilliant sickle-moon and his company, Harriet might have been a little wary of the darkness pressing on all sides as they made their way up a country lane trimmed with tall blackberry bushes.

"Oh?"

"I wish to become more involved, personally, with your education at Hogwarts," Professor Dumbledore said, glancing at Harriet: his glasses flashed in the moonlight. "Something has occurred of a most important nature, and I wish you to take private lessons with me."

"With—_you_?" Harriet stared. She knew Professor Dumbledore had taught Transfiguration back in Tom Riddle's day, but she had never really _thought_ of Dumbledore as a _teacher_ before.

"You seem surprised."

"Well—yeah. What will you teach me?" Harriet asked excitedly. Knowing Dumbledore, it could be anything, the thing she least expected.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," Professor Dumbledore said vaguely, but Harriet knew she wasn't being snubbed, and was at her leisure to keep asking questions. She glanced at Professor Dumbledore, wondering if she shouldn't mention her scar hurting. She decided to be safe.

"Professor… Does this have anything to do with Voldemort?" she asked quietly, and the blackberry bushes seemed to shiver in a breeze that wasn't there.

"Perceptive, Harriet. But why do you ask?" Professor Dumbledore asked gently. Harriet bit her lip. She had already sent her letter to Sirius, but perhaps Dumbledore would know more about the dream.

"Well, it's just…yesterday morning, really early, I woke up with my scar hurting," Harriet admitted tremulously. "And…and I think I was dreaming of Voldemort before it started to hurt…I think he killed someone."

Professor Dumbledore turned to her, his normally serene face pulled together in a frown that was at once anxious and insightful. He examined her face for a few moments, then sighed softly and started walking again, stroking his beard in thought.

"Do you remember, Harriet, _who_ he killed?" he asked.

"Yes—it was an old man," Harriet said, hurrying to keep up with Dumbledore's long strides, breathless and a little excited that Dumbledore didn't think she was mad, or that the dream was unimportant. She _had_ been worried about it, after all…even if only for a short time. "And Voldemort was with Wormtail—you know, Peter Pettigrew—and they were in a really old house; I could tell because the hearth-rug was really threadbare. And there was a ginormous snake coiled up on it."

"A snake?" Professor Dumbledore frowned again. "Do you remember anything else about this dream, Harriet?"

"Um…well…" Harriet flushed deeply, but Professor Dumbledore glanced at her and she didn't feel quite as stupid saying this to him as she might anyone else. "They were plotting to kill me—but that's old news, isn't it?"

"Thank you for telling me about this, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore said calmly. "You have helped me understand something far more than you realise at present."

"Something about Voldemort?" Harriet asked, almost running to keep up. She realised how tall Professor Dumbledore was, especially in his pointed hat.

"Something that has _everything_ to do with Lord Voldemort," Professor Dumbledore said.

"Is it—_that_—what you're going to be teaching me about?" Harriet asked curiously. Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"You have a sharp mind, Harriet, just like your father," he smiled. "Harriet, have you told anybody else about your scar hurting?"

"Um…" Now came the crux of it: she knew Sirius had told Professor Dumbledore everything that night, before they'd helped him escape, but would Dumbledore be angry for her keeping in touch with her godfather. "Um…I sent a letter, last night, to Sirius—But I didn't tell him about the dream. Only my scar hurting, and about going to the Weasleys'." Professor Dumbledore said nothing for a few paces, just stared at Harriet with those inscrutable, twinkling forget-me-not blue eyes.

"This is quite remarkable," he said gently, after a few seconds.

"What is?"

"You spent less than six hours with your godfather, and yet here you are, as attached to him as if you'd spent your entire lives together," Professor Dumbledore smiled.

"Which we should've done," Harriet murmured angrily to herself, kicking at a large stone in the path.

"You miss Sirius, then? You wish to see him more often," Professor Dumbledore guessed.

"I want him to be safe," Harriet said, glancing up. "As long as he's safe…"

"Mm…yes, uncommonly like your parents," Professor Dumbledore remarked, almost to himself. Harriet glanced up and he smiled, and elaborated. "They, too, would have put his safety above their own, as they did with you." Harriet nodded.

"Sirius said he would've died for my parents, rather than betray their trust," Harriet said softly, wondering, not for the first time this summer, what might've happened if her parents _hadn't_ chosen Pettigrew as their Secret-Keeper. If Harriet had lived with her godfather, if she had never met Rhona and Hermes that first day on the train.

"And so he would for you, too," Professor Dumbledore said quietly. "Ah, I see the Weasleys are waiting for you."

Harriet grinned upon her first glimpse of The Burrow. It was not quite the feeling she got upon seeing Hogwarts, her first home, but it was something close to it, seeing the higgledy-piggledy structure that had stemmed once from an overlarge sty. Every window—in the oddest places, up the several stories—was aglow with warm amber light, and even from here, Harriet could hear the excited chatter and deep, rumbling laughs of Rhona's many brothers.

"Sir?" Harriet paused, biting her lip; she glanced at Dumbledore. "Should I tell…anyone?"

"I believe you would be doing your friendship a disservice by not divulging what we have spoken about," Dumbledore smiled. "You need your friends, Harriet. The people who love us are the only chance _any_ of us has…That is something Tom Riddle never understood."

"So I can tell them about the lessons, and the dream?" Harriet said quietly. Professor Dumbledore nodded, smiled, and rapped his knuckles on the back door.

The door burst open. "_HARRIET'S HERE!!!!!_" Fred Weasley bellowed, over his shoulder, and he grinned from ear to ear as Professor Dumbledore gestured Harriet over the threshold, following her inside. The kitchen, more crowded than Harriet had ever remembered it, exploded with greetings; Rhona and George were sitting at the kitchen table, with mugs of tea and talking to red-haired people Harriet assumed could only be the two eldest Weasley brothers, Bill and Charlie.

"Hullo Harriet," the nearer of the two said, his broad, good-natured face (weather-beaten and so covered in freckles he looked tanned) spreading into a grin. Harriet took his hand and felt blisters and calluses beneath her fingers; this couldn't be anybody but Charlie, who worked with dragons in Romania. He was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than lanky Rhona and Percy; his arms were gorgeously muscular and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it. "It's nice to meet you, finally."

"Yeah—Rhona hasn't shut up about you," said Bill, who came as a bit of a shock for Harriet. Bill had been Head Boy in his time at Hogwarts (Charlie, the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain) and Harriet had always envisioned him being a lot like, well, _Percy, _who had worn the badge last year. Plus, Bill worked for the wizard's bank, Gringotts, so whatever knowledge Harriet knew about Muggle bankers had been applied to Bill. He was, however, and there was no other way to say it—_cool_. It was no wonder Rhona idolised him more than any of her other brothers. He was tall, like Rhona, with long hair that he tied back in a ponytail; an earring caught the light, from which dangled a small fang. He wouldn't have been out of place at a rock-concert, although, Harriet noticed, his boots were made of dragon-hide, not leather.

"_So_," Charlie said, tugging out the chair beside him and patting the seat. "Rhona says you own a _Firebolt_. How long have you been flying?" Whilst Mrs Weasley sorted out tea for Professor Dumbledore, and doled out bowlfuls of crème-fraiche tomato soup to Harriet, declaring that, "_You're just like Rhona—you're_ _both_ far_ too skinny_," and Hermes dropped downstairs with Crookshanks in his arms (for whom Harriet had a newfound appreciation after the events of June), Harriet and Charlie had a sparring match about Quidditch that only ended with Professor Dumbledore making his departure.

"I shall see you all on September the first, I hope," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. Harriet called her thanks above everyone else's goodbyes and Dumbledore smiled, made a bow to Mrs Weasley, and departed out of the back door.

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**A.N.**: PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!

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	4. Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes

**A.N.**: This chapter is dedicated to _smidget_, for you reviewed first!

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**Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes**

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"Care for a toffee, Harriet?" George asked nonchalantly. He offered her a handful of brightly-wrapped sweets and Harriet shrugged, reaching forward, but Bill Weasley caught her wrist.

"You don't want to go hexing the Girl Who Lived, George," he said warningly, although his eyes glittered with mirth. Mrs Weasley suddenly looked up sharply.

"George! What are you doing? If those sweets have anything to do with _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_—" Mrs Weasley began.

"Why don't you show Harriet where you'll be sleeping, Rhona?" Hermes said nonchalantly, though giving Rhona a very pointed look, that, somehow, Rhona didn't catch.

"It's through there," Rhona said, nonplussed, jerking her thumb at the living-room.

"_We can help you set up_," Hermes said pointedly.

"Oh. Right," Rhona said, flushing, and unfolded out of her seat. "Come on, Hetty."

"Yeah, we'll come to," George said, eyeing his mother warily as Fred began stuffing the brightly-coloured toffees into his pockets. "Fred, get the blankets?"

"_You two stay where you are_," Mrs Weasley snarled dangerously, and Harriet, Rhona and Hermes couldn't get away from the kitchen-table quick enough.

The living-room was largish, cosy, filled with squashy furniture that was well broken-in and covered in soft blankets Mrs Weasley's enchanted knitting-needles made. The large, deep sofa was piled high with soft blankets and two large pillows, waiting for bedtime.

Percy sat at the work table in the corner, which was spread with so many parchments she could barely see how he was managing to do any work: he completely ignored them.

"What's _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_?" Harriet asked quietly, as Hermes tugged an armchair closer to the sofa, where Rhona folded up and Harriet curled up beside her. Rhona grinned; Hermes looked mildly disapproving.

"Mum found a stack of order forms when she was cleaning out Fred and George's room," Rhona said softly, craning her neck to glance into the kitchen. "Great long price-lists for stuff they've invented. Joke-stuff, you know—Fake wands and trick sweets and things, absolutely _tons_ of stuff—it was fab. None of us ever guessed they were actually _inventing_ things when we kept hearing explosions in their room. We just thought they liked the noise, and thought seeing as they weren't injuring themselves, it wasn't doing any harm…only, most of the stuff was a bit…dangerous, really. You know what the twins are like—but anyway, they were planning to sell the stuff at Hogwarts, to make some cash, you know," Rhona's cheeks flushed; she had always been very touchy about her family not being too financially stable.

"Anyway, Mum found them, and she realised that was what they were doing last year when they should've been studying—when we got home from school, the twins told Mum they reckoned they'd failed all their O.W.L.s. We still haven't heard from the examining board for their results. So Mum burned all the order forms, told 'em that they weren't going to mess up their lives by wasting their time on all of that rubbish, and they weren't allowed to sell to the public. And then, well, then there was another huge row, because the twins told Mum all they wanted to do was open a joke-shop—She wants them to go into the Ministry of Magic like Dad and," she wrinkled her nose at her least-favourite brother, "_Percy_."

"So what was it they were trying to feed me?" Harriet asked.

"Ton-Tongue Toffees is my guess," Rhona sighed, relaxing into the sofa. "They got me to eat one in June—my tongue swelled to seven-feet long before Mum figured out it was an Engorgement Charm they'd put on the toffee."

"I'm trying to _work here_, you know," Percy said very irritably, glowering over at them from his table, his horn-rimmed glasses flashing in the light of the fire. "I've got a report to finish for the office—and it's really very difficult to concentrate with people gabbing on about inconsequential gossip."

"We're not _gabbing_," Rhona snapped. "If you've got a problem with noise, go upstairs and work in your room—or maybe _you_ could stay here and Harriet and I will go and sleep in your room, instead of on the sofa. I'm _ever so sorry_ if we're disturbing top-secret Ministry of Magic work."

"What are you working on?" Harriet asked pleasantly.

"Oh, hello Harriet," Percy said, as if just noticing her. "I'm working on a report for the Department of International Magical Co-Operation. We're trying to standardise cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign imports are just a shade too thin—leakages have been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a year—"

"My _god_, it's a conspiracy!!" Harriet shouted passionately, smacking her fist down on the arm of the sofa. Percy's cheeks went slightly pink when Rhona and Hermes sniggered. "How long have you been working, Percy?"

"Since the beginning of the summer," Percy said smugly. Just then, the kitchen exploded with bellows from Mrs Weasley, Fred, George, and Mr Weasley, all of whom seemed to want to outdo each other, and Charlie and Bill came running into the living-room, cringing in sympathy for their twin brothers. Percy shot the kitchen a deep glower, packed up his things, and, muttering something about 'disrupting _my_ work' and slipped upstairs to his bedroom.

"Percy gets to keep his room," Rhona said, annoyed, as her eldest brothers threw themselves into squashy chairs, groaning luxuriously. "Bill and Charlie are in my room with Hermes, so we're on the sofa. Hope that's alright."

"I used to sleep in a cupboard," Harriet grinned.

"Yeah, well, you're a midget, aren't you," Rhona smirked. Harriet was two-thirds Rhona's height, and she never let Harriet forget it. "I expect you'd still fit."

"You can always shove her off the sofa in the middle of the night, Harriet," Charlie suggested, grinning. Rhona narrowed her eyes at him. "Let her sleep on the floor and see how she likes it."

"Done that," Harriet sighed. "I've slept on the floor before."

"Well, I'd rather sleep on the sofa than in that _room_ of yours, Rhona," Bill said. "The _Cannons_, honestly!"

"What's your favourite team, Harriet?" Charlie asked, overriding the beginning of an argument between Rhona and Bill over her devotion to the Chudley Cannons. Harriet scooped _Flying with the Harpies_ out of her overnight bag and grinned.

"The _Harpies_," she beamed, and Charlie looked mildly impressed that Harriet hadn't sold out to the _Tornadoes_.

"Charlie's a Falmouth _Falcons_ fan," Rhona said, wrinkling her nose. Charlie shrugged. "They offered to sign him onto their starting team when he left Hogwarts." Harriet let her jaw drop, appalled.

"You _turned them down_?" Charlie just chuckled.

"Mind you, the way the League turned out last season, it's no wonder England played so atrociously," Bill said, shaking his head dejectedly.

"England lost?" Until Rhona had written which two teams were in the final, she'd somehow managed to be under the impression England would be playing. The Weasleys all bowed their heads shamefully. Harriet regretted, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, her isolation from the Wizarding world in her exile at Privet Drive. If there were very many unusual things about Harriet Potter, it was that she, as a teenaged girl, was as obsessed with Quidditch as the next man.

"They were _slaughtered_ by Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten," Charlie said gloomily, his expression quite miserable. "Appalling performance—and Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland were dominated by Luxembourg."

"Well, if _you'd_ played for England, maybe we'd've still been in the running," Harriet said tartly, sticking her tongue out.

"Oh, _you're_ going to give me grief about that too, are you?" Charlie chuckled good-naturedly. "How'd you know about that?"

"Hagrid," Harriet beamed. "And Professor McGonagall. She said the first day she saw me fly, she wondered if you could've pulled off the dive I did."

"Yeah—Norah's Remembrall," Rhona grinned. She turned to Charlie, a very smug look on her face. "Harriet was the youngest House player in a _century_." Harriet hid her flushed face, putting _Flying with the Cannons_ back in her bag: she caught sight of her letter to Cedric.

"Um, Rhona, d'you mind if I borrow…_Pig_?" Harriet asked, hiding the addressee on her envelope as she plucked it out of her bag.

"Pig?" Hermes spoke up, frowning. "Rhona, his name is _Pigwidgeon_."

"His name is _stupid_," Rhona retorted snippily. She glanced at Harriet. "Hermes named him; I tried to change it, but the stupid thing won't answer to anything else now." Coming from a person whose cat was named Crookshanks, Harriet thought, Pigwidgeon wasn't that surprising a christening. Rhona ran upstairs and came back down with Pig, who was hooting excitably at the prospect of another delivery.

Harriet tried to hide the addressee as she attached the letter to Pig's leg, but just then the twins came in, red-faced and glowering, and to vent their frustrations they took to tormenting her, snatching the letter and making one hell of a racket by teasing her, which made the older boys laugh loudly, and Rhona had collapsed into Bill's lap in a fit of giggles; even Hermes had gone red in the face from trying not to grin too widely as the twins played Keep It Away From Harriet, and Harriet-in-the-Middle.

"Aw, she's so cute and little," Charlie laughed loudly, crying with mirth as he passed the letter a clear two feet over Harriet's head to Bill quite easily. She jumped up, trying to get the letter, and didn't want to resort to kicking because the boys were so much bigger and stronger than her. Until Fred threatened to open the letter and read the contents aloud—Harriet growled, bent low, and launched herself at his knees, knocking him to the floor in a heap before Mrs Weasley, who had just arrived to see what the commotion was.

"Yes, you're a truly terrifying monster," Fred laughed raucously, but Mr Weasley gently helped Harriet off the floor and Mrs Weasley held her hand to George out for the letter.

"Cedric Diggory?" she read, and then she smiled at Harriet. "Oh, he's a lovely boy—he only lives a few miles away."

"He's in _Hufflepuff_," Fred wheezed, as, instead of helping him up, Charlie sat on his younger-brother, pinning him to the floor. "_And_ he cheated in our last Quidditch game."

"He did not _cheat_!" Harriet snapped, flushing as Mrs Weasley handed her back the letter, mercifully unopened. "He caught the snitch fair and square _before_ I fell off the broom."

"You fell off?" Charlie sniggered, and Harriet's eyes narrowed. She had long since perfected the use of facial expressions to display her potential, when everyone thought that, because she was so little, she was harmless.

"There were a _hundred_ Dementors swarming beneath me," she snapped irritably, glowering as she tied the letter to Pig: Rhona, pink-faced and with tear-tracks down her cheeks, still grinning, hurled him out of the window and slammed it shut. "_And_ Cedric tried to call off the catch."

"I've always liked Ella Diggory," said Mrs Weasley, as if this settled the matter. "She's a lovely woman. And _her_ son is _very_ well-behaved."

"Doesn't mean he isn't a pillock," Fred grumbled, struggling beneath Charlie, who seemed unable to register Fred squirming around, or chose to ignore it.

"What was that, Fred?" Mrs Weasley asked sharply.

"I said 'doesn't he live over the hillock'," Fred said innocently.

"Mm," said Mrs Weasley, undeceived. "Girls, why don't you go upstairs and get ready for bed?" Harriet grabbed her bag and followed Rhona upstairs to her attic bedroom; it looked just the same as the last time Harriet had seen it, with the exception of a few more neon-orange posters and the absence of Scabbers; Pig's cage stood on top of the wardrobe. Rhona grabbed a pair of too-small pyjamas from her dresser, and Harriet slipped into her new rose-patterned white poplin shorts and camisole, wondering if she ought to take her bra off; she decided against it, seeing Rhona had too, considering the number of boys there were in the house; she tugged her slippers on and followed Rhona back downstairs both wrapped in light, summery dressing-gowns.

* * *

Mrs Weasley stood in the kitchen, making the last brew of the day in the cauldron; hot-chocolate, made from an enormous slab of Honeydukes chocolate melted into warmed milk, and the rest of the Weasleys sans Percy sat in the living-room, everyone except Bill and Charlie in their pyjamas and dressing-gowns. The girls went to join Hermes on the hearth, tickling Crookshanks behind the ears (even Rhona liked him now, having been the reason she found out she'd been letting a _man_ sleep in her bed with her) and Mr Weasley turned the Wizarding wireless on to listen to a late-evening programme. The witch radio-host, whoever she was, was introducing novelist Adorabella Aphrodisia, who was supposed to be doing a reading from her newly-released latest novel.

"Oh, I don't think we need to listen to that," Mrs Weasley said, flustered and flushed, when Adorabella Aphrodisia started reading from her erotic novel. The boys all sniggered, eyes bright, as Mrs Weasley twiddled the dial of the radio to _Witch Weekly's Top Ten Hits_, which featured prominently a witch named Celestina Warbeck, Mrs Weasley's favourite, and a strange band called the _Weird Sisters_, the songs by whom Rhona knew all the words to, but Harriet had never heard. She liked them immensely—reminded instantaneously of Muse and Paramore combined, with a little bit of MuteMath, and mentioned these bands to Hermes, alone of the room who would know what she was talking about.

"Oh," said Hermes, and he ran upstairs for something, leaving the girls playing with Crookshanks and some Butterbeer corks. He returned some two minutes later toting four black books with silver titles and red pictures on the front.

"_Books_," said Rhona, wrinkling her nose.

"They're not for you," Hermes snapped, passing them into Harriet's lap. "They're the _Twilight_ books, Harriet—you remember, the ones I was telling you about in my letters. I'm finished with them now."

"Aw, cool!" Harriet grinned. "Daisy actually _allowed_ me to watch this film with her at the Dursleys'." Harriet loved Edward, but she wasn't sure about the vampire thing. "Have you seen the film?" Hermes nodded.

"I thought Edward looked a lot like Cedric Diggory," Hermes said thoughtfully, eyeing the books. Fred and George made kissy noises at Harriet, until she clobbered them both with hardback _Breaking Dawn_ and they desisted.

* * *

An hour later, when the twins, Mr and Mrs Weasley and Hermes had all gone to bed, both Charlie and Bill were still sprawled all over the sofa with the wireless still on, dozing but conscious enough to tell Rhona and Harriet, who were whining about wanting to get to bed, that "this is the best part of the programme," and that, "your bed is _our_ sofa," and wouldn't get up. Harriet glanced at Rhona; they caught each other's eyes, nodded curtly, and went to the back of the sofa, shoving on it with all their weight, so that Charlie and Bill were tossed onto the floor with the cushions with loud _bangs_.

They giggled loudly and grinned as Charlie went up on his hands and knees and shook himself like a waterlogged dog, his eyes bright and surprised. Bill clambered off the floor using his younger-brother for support and he grabbed both Rhona and Harriet in a tight hug before shuffling to the stairs. Charlie had disappeared in the kitchen, and as Rhona spread out three fluffy blankets and a quilt over the sofa with their pillows at opposite ends, Harriet heard Charlie tinkering around making another mug of cocoa to take upstairs with him. Rhona had already spread along the length of the sofa on the inside, therefore Harriet had to curl up on the edge the other side of Rhona's feet.

"G'night," Rhona grunted softly. Harriet murmured a reply: Rhona squirmed, Harriet rolled over, and with a tremendous _bang_ in the silence of the house, she fell onto the floor with a yell. Rhona snorted and burst into laughter, which echoed in the silence of the darkened living-room, the fire crackling merrily as if laughing at Harriet, too.

"Ow," Harriet groaned, disentangling her limbs, and she heard Charlie chuckling at the doorway to the kitchen.

"Does baby want me to tuck her in?" he asked teasingly, as Harriet slipped under the four blankets again. Charlie set his cocoa down, and tucked both Rhona and Harriet in so tightly that they couldn't move, almost strangling Rhona with her end of the blanket.

When he slipped up the stairs, they both started squirming again. Harriet yelled wildly and found herself banging into the floorboards again. Rhona's laugh burst loudly from her again, and this time she had to help Harriet off the floor, still cocooned in her blankets. Rhona shoved her against the back of the sofa and took the outside part, seeing as Harriet was "a danger to yourself" and Harriet curled up as she usually did.

She always slept on her stomach, with her legs curled beneath her like a baby, her hands curled by her head, draped with the blankets, her head buried so deep in the pillow that Rhona often wondered aloud how Harriet managed to breathe.

* * *

**A.N.**: REVIEWS PLEASE!!!

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	5. Nesting Dragons in the Morning

**A.N.**: Please review!

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**Nesting-Dragons in the Morning**

* * *

"Good morning, _good morning_, we've danced the whole night through, good morning, _good morning_, to _yoooouuuu_," two voices sang, far too obnoxiously chipper, right by Harriet's head. "Good morning, _good morning_, it's great to stay up late, good morning, _good morning_, to _yoooouuuu_."

"Buggar off," she grumbled into her pillow, and Fred and George both guffawed loudly, making Harriet cringe, grumble, and burrow deeper under her blankets.

"Has anyone ever told you, Harriet, that you sleep like a baby?" someone asked interestedly; she dimly recognised the cheerful, smiling voice of Charlie Weasley, and ignored him.

"Hey, she's got a camera here," George said gleefully. Harriet roared loudly and jumped a foot in the air, throwing her blankets off, when someone dug their fingers deep into her sides, saw a great flash of a camera and promptly toppled off the sofa over Rhona's legs in a heap of blankets, yelling.

"Shut up, 'Arriet," Rhona grumbled, and disoriented, all Harriet could hear was the boys' laughter and all she could see was fuzzy white blanket.

"Oh, god, help her up," Bill Weasley laughed pleasantly. "Or she'll strangle herself." Harriet fought and lost the struggle against the blankets, and collapsed, pouting and semi-conscious, allowing the boys (unnamed, as she couldn't see them) to divest her of her blankets.

"You're a bit of a nesting-dragon in the morning, aren't you, munchkin," Charlie Weasley said, chuckling softly as he tugged Harriet's arms out of the blankets. She pouted and grumbled. _I'll give you 'nesting dragon'_, she thought mutinously, still unable to see anything because she didn't have her new glasses on, and she had completely scared Bill last night by touching her eyeballs when she took her contact-lenses out in front of them, to show Mr Weasley, who'd been the first to notice she wasn't wearing her customary round glasses.

"Come on, Rhona, _get up_," Bill said loudly, bouncing Rhona on the sofa so Rhona, who always slept on her back with her arms thrown out like the Crucifixion, grumbled and swiped at him irritably. Harriet eyed her shrewdly, clambered out of Charlie Weasley's lap, climbed onto the sofa, and started jumping all over Rhona.

Rhona was no more of a morning-person than Harriet was, and she had very long limbs and a kick like a mule. _BANG_.

"Ouch!" Bill, Charlie, Hermes, Fred and George all winced as Rhona kicked Harriet and sent her colliding head-first with the hearth.

"_MUM_! Rhona's cracked Harriet's head open!!" Bill shouted, and Rhona was suddenly wide awake.

"Oh! I thought it was Fred!" Rhona whispered, as Harriet whimpered in pain, her eyes watering despite herself.

"And that makes it alright, then, does it?" Fred asked indignantly.

"Wow, you can see the line where she's losing colour," Charlie chuckled softly, attempting to pry Harriet's hands from the gash in her forehead.

"_Rhona Weasley_!" Mrs Weasley shouted, and Rhona jumped, her face white and guilt-stricken, as Mrs Weasley came waddling into the living-room, her expression deadly, brandishing her wand. "Where does it hurt, dear?" she asked Harriet tenderly, and Charlie managed to pry Harriet's hands away. "Oh, I'll have that cleaned up in a jiffy, it won't even scar."

"Good," Harriet pouted. "Already got too many." The boys chuckled, and Charlie lifted her effortlessly into his arms, carrying her at Mrs Weasley's bidding into the kitchen, where the matriarch of the family presided over _The Healer's Helpmate_. She pointed her wand at Harriet's forehead, muttered something, and the pounding pain in her head vanished.

"There we are, all better," Mrs Weasley smiled.

"Does baby want a wowipop 'cos she's been so _bwave_?" Charlie cooed, pinching Harriet's cheeks. She stared at him giving him a _very_ dark look, and George chuckled as he snapped another photograph with her Leica. Gradually things came into focus out of her grogginess; Rhona squirmed and kicked in her sleep, which owed to a few bruises for Harriet, and a restless sleep punctuated with mutterings from her best-friend, who, at one point during the night, had sat bolt upright, eyes closed, muttering to herself, which had startled ten years of Harriet's life; other than that, Rhona snored in her sleep.

"Didn't you get much sleep last night, Harriet?" Mrs Weasley asked softly, putting a large plate of full English breakfast in front of her (Charlie and Bill had already eaten, and were sipping coffee); Charlie let Harriet sit in his lap and eat, one arm thrown casually around her little waist, which made Harriet feel all fluttery in her stomach. The Weasleys were, after all, a very good-looking family.

"No—_that one_ kept squirming and snoring," Harriet said, jabbing her knife towards Rhona, who was wolfing down great mounds of fluffy scrambled eggs. "_And_ she sat up in the middle of the night, muttering to herself."

"You still _do that_?" Bill laughed loudly, almost spilling his coffee. "Wow, we all thought you'd grow out of that! Mind you, that's not as bad as _George_—_he_ used to sleep-walk into my room at three in the morning, _every_ morning, and go through that floorboard under my bed. I thought there was a Boggart under there 'till I stayed up one night and waited for it to come out. Scared the living daylights out of him, didn't I Georgie!" Harriet laughed at George's burning ears, and Mrs Weasley hummed happily to herself.

"Yes, well, _you_ were a right little terror when _you_ were a baby," she said, passing a plate of sausages and slices of bread to her beloved first-born for a sausage-sarnie. "Always disappeared from your cot, you did. I remember one evening, I made it so that only Houdini himself could have escaped from your cradle."

"What happened?" Fred asked interestedly.

"I woke up in the morning, saw Bill there with that little blanket he used to carry round, said, 'Hullo, Houdini,' and went back to sleep," Mr Weasley said, emerging from the yard, where he had probably been tinkering about with plugs in his shed. The kitchen erupted with laughter as Bill shook his head, muttering something like "didn't have a blanket" and Mrs Weasley doled out a mounded serving of seconds to Harriet.

"Honestly, how a growing girl like you could survive off carrot-sticks all summer I _don't_ know," Mrs Weasley said irritably, frowning at Harriet. "You're _far_ too thin already."

"Well—it's Daisy. She's about four times the size of a 'growing girl'," Harriet said, to more laughter. "And it wasn't even carrot sticks. It was _celery_. Thank you for those care packages you sent—you _really_ saved my life!" Mrs Weasley smiled but started fussing over her; sitting in Charlie's lap, Harriet didn't have much chance of an escape, but she was very willing to accept the offer when Mrs Weasley mentioned giving her hair a trim.

"And _yours_ is getting a bit long, too, Bill," Mrs Weasley said, fingering her wand lovingly and frowning disapprovingly at Bill's ponytail.

"I think it's wicked," Harriet grinned at handsome Bill. "His hair's no way _near_ as long as Professor Dumbledore's, and everyone respects _him_." Bill flashed Harriet a very handsome, grateful grin.

Something light-grey and twittering madly came zooming through the open kitchen-window over the sink and went rocketing into Harriet's head as she lifted her fork full of bacon to her mouth; she bit down hard on her tongue and cursed as Pigwidgeon hooted shrilly, captured in Rhona's hand.

"Ooooohh, Harriet's got a letter from her _boyfriend_," Fred and George both began taunting. Harriet took the letter from Rhona, who got up to take Pig upstairs to his cage, and chose _not _to open it sat at the kitchen table surrounded by several young men: Mrs Weasley cleared the table, banished Fred and George to do the homework she knew they hadn't completed, and Harriet jumped as something very cold trickled down her neck, soaking her hair.

"I'm just washing it before I cut it, dear," Mrs Weasley smiled, already at the stove preparing Sunday dinner. It was a very odd sensation; Harriet felt like there were hands massaging the brilliant pink, bubbly shampoo (she could see it in the mirror above the fireplace) into her hair, but neither Mrs Weasley nor Charlie nor Bill was anywhere near her; Rhona was upstairs in the shower and Hermes (already dressed before breakfast, like he would be at home with his parents) was reading in the living-room.

"Do you know, I still remember the first time I saw you, dear," Mrs Weasley smiled affectionately at Harriet, once she watched the bubbles rinse into thin air and a softening conditioner was massaged into her hair. "I'd forgotten how much you'd grown until I looked at those photographs Rhona sent home of you both during your first year. Tiny little thing you were—with those big green eyes and all this _hair_." The Dursleys weren't the only ones who didn't like Harriet's thick, tousled black hair—but Mrs Weasley tended to _despair_ over its perpetual untidiness more than anything else. "You're blossoming into a young lady, and no-one's noticed."

Harriet just sat there, thinking, her cheeks slightly flushed. She would much rather have lived with the Weasley family than anyone else in the world—except perhaps Sirius. Since the first day Harriet met her—at Kings Cross, shy and alone and wondering how to get onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters—Mrs Weasley had always been a sort of mother-figure, the very epitome of all Harriet's daydreams of what her mother might've been like, if she'd lived long enough. In recent years, Harriet had wondered whether her parents had been planning on having any more children after her, mostly because she saw how happy the Weasley family was with their large number.

"Are you alright, dear?" Mrs Weasley asked softly.

"Hm? Oh…Yeah, I'm fine," Harriet said dazedly, biting her lip. She watched Mrs Weasley frowning over Harriet's hair, heard a few soft snips, and Mrs Weasley pronounced her finished. Harriet shook her head, slipped her new rimless glasses on, and thanked Mrs Weasley: Rhona came bounding downstairs, an old _Cleansweep_ in one hand, Harriet's _Firebolt_ in the other.

"Bill and Charlie and the twins want to play," she grinned, tossing Harriet her _Firebolt_.

* * *

So they played. Out in the orchard, there was no chance that the Muggles in Ottery St Catchpole could see them zooming around a hundred feet in the air, lobbing apples at each other, swooping and soaring. It was Harriet, Charlie and George versus Rhona, who made a fair Keeper, Bill and Fred; every time an apple went within five feet of Fred, it ended up becoming apple sauce, usually all over the person flying nearest. They used a golf-ball Bill changed to gold in colour for the Snitch, Bill directing it with his wand for Harriet to catch. They played for most of the morning and Hermes went inside at noon, staggering back with a platter of sandwiches and a flagon of ice-cold Butterbeer. In mid-afternoon they called it a day, finally settling on Harriet, Charlie and George's team with the win, and they trooped back to the house to freshen up and help Mrs Weasley with the last preparations for dinner.

Mr and Mrs Weasley were both in the kitchen, Mr Weasley doing a little paperwork for the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, considering he had the next few days off work, and Mrs Weasley was busy at the stove; the kitchen was absolutely filled with scents so mouth-watering they were almost solid. The Wizarding wireless was on, playing a song that was oddly familiar, one of her all-time Muggle favourites, from when Daisy had watched _Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves_. It was the love-song from that film, '_Everything I Do: I Do It for You'_.

"Is that—_Bryan Adams?_" she asked, astounded, taking a stack of plates from Mrs Weasley. "But—he's a _Muggle _musician."

"It's _Muggle Matinee_ hour," Mr Weasley said eagerly.

"Cutlery, please, Rhona," Mrs Weasley said, flicking her wand at the drawer so knives and forks hurtled towards a wide-eyed Rhona. "We're eating outside, dears; there simply isn't _room_ for ten people in this kitchen!"

"The _WWN _has found someone as nutty about Muggles as Dad to have their own show," Rhona smirked. "He's crazy about _Muggle Matinee _now—even wanted to go into the nearest town to by Muggle records."

"I said I'd take him next week," Hermes smiled, carrying a load of folded cloth napkins. "My dad's given me a load of his old records, to take to Hogwarts with us." Hermes led them out into the yard, where they saw Crookshanks, pelting after what Harriet recognised from her last trip to The Burrow as a garden gnome; it launched itself into one of Mr Weasley's old Wellington boots and giggled madly as Crookshanks hissed in anger and irritation as he inserted a paw and swiped. A loud crashing noise led them around the back of the house, and Harriet and Rhona both blurted out laughs as they saw Charlie and Bill having a sort of Dining-Table Duel in mid-air, trying to knock each out of the air with powerful, echoing _bangs_ as they collided.

Bill's table collided with Charlie's with an echoing, splintering _crash_ and the leg of Charlie's table fell off with a bang: there was a clatter overhead and Percy's horn-rimmed glasses flashed angrily in the sunshine.

"Do you _mind_? Some of us are trying to _work_ here!" he bellowed.

"How are the _bottoms_ coming along?" Harriet called, as Bill and Charlie apologised, grinning.

"Very badly," Percy said dully, glowering, and slammed the window on their laughter. Bill and Charlie returned the tables to the ground; Bill repaired the leg of Charlie's table and two neat tablecloths were conjured out of thin-air.

* * *

By early-evening, the two tables were groaning with Mrs Weasley's fantabulous cooking; candles and strings of fairies lit the garden when the light of the clear, deep-blue sky faltered, and Harriet, Hermes and the eight Weasleys all sat around the table. To Harriet, who had been living off sickly-sweet birthday cakes for the summer, the full roast Sunday dinner was an absolute blessing. For a while, Harriet just focused on eating, listening to the conversations around her rather than speaking; up the other end of the table, Percy was talking to Mr Weasley about his report:

"I told Mr Crouch I'd have it ready by Tuesday," Percy said smugly. "It's a bit sooner than he'd expected, but I think he'll be grateful for the effort. We simply don't have the _time_ to waste on things in the Department, especially now with the World Cup and we've got _quite_ enough on our plates at the Department of International Magical Co-Operation, what with the big event we're organising after the World Cup, you know, Father, the Top Secret one—and we're getting absolutely _no_ help from Ludo Bagman—"

"I like Ludo," said Mr Weasley into his elderflower wine. "It's thanks to him we got such great tickets. I helped out his brother Otto—he had a bit of a problem with an unnatural lawnmower."

"Oh, well, Bagman's _likeable_ enough," Percy conceded dismissively. "But how _he_ ever got to be Head of his Department I'll _never_ know—you do realise he _still_ hasn't sent anyone out to find Bertha Jorkins…" Harriet turned to Rhona.

"What's he talking about—that thing he mentioned, happening after the Cup?" Harriet asked. Rhona gave her least-favourite brother a scowl.

"He's been trying to get us all to ask all summer, ever since he started work," she said darkly. Harriet glanced up at the table at Percy, who was comparing Ludo Bagman, whoever he was, to his boss, Mr Crouch.

Mrs Weasley was harassing Bill about his earring—more specifically the very-visible fang dangling from it. Charlie, Fred and George were in the middle of a blazing argument on Quidditch fouls, and the last Welsh Cup game, and who should be the winners of tomorrow night's game.

"It's _got_ to be Ireland," Charlie said, through a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding. "Got to keep it in the British Isles—they flattened Peru in the Semi-Finals."

"Yeah, but Bulgaria have got Viktoria Krum," Rhona spoke up, speaking in a wistful, awed voice.

"Krum?" Harriet asked.

"The Seeker," Rhona grinned. "She's the youngest in the tournament, only just eighteen or something."

"Yes—Bulgaria _does_ have Krum," Charlie conceded, shaking his head. "She's one decent player—Ireland has _seven_."

* * *

After Harriet had been fed her third serving of dinner by Mrs Weasley, _and_ managed two bowls of homemade strawberry ice-cream, and when the candles were glowing brightly and attracting moths that fluttered gently from the darkness, Mrs Weasley checked her watch and jumped. "Goodness, look at the time. You'll all be a sorry state tomorrow morning if you don't get to bed now—no, no, go on and get ready for bed now. Bill, Charlie, you can help me clean this up," she said, for Harriet had just stood to help Mrs Weasley clear the table. "Harriet—just leave your school lists out, I'm getting everyone else's things in Diagon Alley tomorrow."

"Aren't you coming to the match?" Harriet asked, surprised.

"Oh, _no_," Mrs Weasley chuckled good-naturedly. "No, violence on broomsticks does nothing for my nerves, dear." Harriet nodded, and allowed Hermes to tug her towards the house.

"Have you heard from Sirius lately?" he asked quietly, as they crossed the yard with Rhona.

"Er…yeah. I sent him a letter yesterday," Harriet said quietly. The reasoning for her letter suddenly came back to her, but, being so full of good food and so warm from the mild weather, seeing the happy, contented looks on her friends' faces, she couldn't bring herself to ruin their serenity by worrying them. Not tonight, at least. "You know—to tell him I was coming here."

"Girls, Hermes," Mrs Weasley called, and they glanced over their shoulders; Mrs Weasley had charmed the dishes and tureens to follow her to the kitchen from the table, and it looked a lot like Follow the Leader, except with inanimate objects. "Make sure you have your overnight bags packed before you go to bed—pyjamas, a change of clothes, toothbrushes, and your pocket-money. I expect there will be a lot of souvenirs you'll regret not buying—your good pyjamas are in the laundry room, Rhona."

"The only pair I'd actually be caught dead in," Rhona muttered to Harriet, who grinned. It was another hour before they all got into bed; Mrs Weasley made them her traditional last brew of the day, Rhona was running all over the house trying to find clothes she wanted to wear the morning after the match, "if indeed it doesn't run on for five days, like it did last time," Mr Weasley said. Harriet had already folded her change of clothing for the morning on top of her overnight bag with her contacts, made sure she had extra rolls of film for her camera, and was already curled up in bed, the lamps turned off, the fire burning brightly, while Rhona was still running around. She pulled the letter from Cedric Diggory out of her pocket and opened it, settling back cosily in the mound of blankets she and Rhona were to share again.

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_I thought I'd send a reply straight back to you, seeing as you're so close now, but I think your little owl might've gotten lost on the way here because it turned up at four in the morning! You should've seen my dad's face when he came into my room to give your letter to me! The little owl was so overexcited it kept flying into my head! I think he wanted me to write back quickly so he could make another delivery!_

_Anyway, it's wonderful that you're coming to the match! You've never really seen a Quidditch match until you've seen it played professionally, I promise you! We're leaving on Monday morning, probably really early, for the portkey from Stoatshead Hill that'll take us to the moor just outside the stadium, and I think if all of the Weasleys are going to see the match, they'll be using the portkey too, unless some of them can Apparate already._

_Oh—__Just __don't__ mention our last Quidditch match to my Dad when you see him, otherwise he'll go on and on about how I caught the Snitch instead of you. I've tried telling him, but, well…you'll understand when you meet him!_

_I hope I'll see you at the portkey tomorrow,_

_L__ove Cedric_.

* * *

'_Love' this time, not 'yours sincerely'_, Harriet noted, grinning to herself. She bit her lip to catch her smile before Rhona came back downstairs, but couldn't help rereading the letter, no matter how short it was. She tucked the letter into her overnight bag, in the zippered inside pocket, and was asleep, smiling to herself, when Rhona came back downstairs.

* * *

**A.N.**: Again with the pleading for reviews!

* * *


	6. The Portkey

**A.N.**: Only one review, but I have so many chapters now on my computer I thought I'd like to post some more, so, chapter number six, _The Portkey_.

* * *

**The Portkey**

* * *

Harriet was used to being woken at odd times during the night, what with her overactive scar, death-wish and curious nature, and when Mrs Weasley shook her awake gently, it took her a split-second to register _why_ she was being woken before the sun had risen, and then she was wide-awake, accepting the cup of tea from Mrs Weasley with a broad grin, before Mrs Weasley went on to try and wake her daughter, who slept like a dead person.

Whilst the boys all thundered around upstairs in a panic, Harriet changed into the clothes she had set aside; a diaphanous black short-sleeved tunic with a deep V-cut neckline, a pair of black leggings that went to just below her knees, little black satin ballet flats, and put her contacts in at the mirror over the living-room fireplace, to Mr Weasley's wide-eyed amazement as he watched. Harriet flicked her eye around, making sure the lens had fallen into place properly, then turned to Mr Weasley, who beamed, spreading his arms; he was wearing an old golfing jumper and a pair of baggy jeans belted with brown leather.

"What do you think?" he asked anxiously. "Do I look like a Muggle?"

"Very convincing," Harriet grinned, and he beamed back at her, his glasses flashing.

"We're supposed to be going _incognito_," Mr Weasley grinned, obviously very pleased with himself. "You know, it's amazing what these Muggles come up with," he said, his eyes still on Harriet's, probably looking to see where the contact lenses were, how effectively they concealed themselves. "Mind you, what if you got Conjunctivitis? I couldn't imagine it'd be pretty with those things in."

"Oh, Aunt Petunia bought me a new pair of frames, too," Harriet said. "Just in case, you know." She showed Mr Weasley her new glasses, tucked into their little faux-leather case with their cleaning-cloth; he admired the way they were constructed without cumbersome frames. Mrs Weasley was already whirling around the kitchen making breakfast.

"Um…Mr Weasley, what's a portkey?" Harriet asked, sitting down with her tea, smiling at Mrs Weasley when she glanced over her shoulder and flicked the huge teapot into the middle of the table. "In his letter, Cedric said he and his father would be taking a portkey from…from Stoatshead Hill, to the match."

"Ah! Yes, Amos Diggory and I have arranged to meet up at the top of the hill," Mr Weasley nodded to himself, pouring a few cups of tea. "A portkey, Harriet, is a magical object used to transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time—like us, you can transport large groups if you need to."

"What sort of objects are they?" Harriet asked interestedly, liking Mr Weasley's idea of waiting for Cedric.

"They can be anything," Mr Weasley shrugged, accepting a bowl of porridge from Mrs Weasley with a fond smile and pouring some honey on it. "Unobtrusive things, things the Muggles wouldn't notice, things they'd think were litter, obviously, so they wouldn't go picking them up."

"How d'you find them before they go off?" Harriet asked. Magic wasn't the kind of thing to make itself known without there being a purpose for it. "Would it just leave without you?"

"Well, they're quite temperamental in that regard," Mr Weasley said, polishing his glasses on his sweater. "While they can be charmed to transport wizards, they _can't_ be told who, or how many wizards, will be using it. So it's always advisable to get to the area the portkey is located a while before it's scheduled to go off, just in case it takes you a little while to find it."

"How far is Stoatshead Hill, then? Is that why we're all up early?" Harriet asked, but she couldn't feel less tired. She was going to see the _Quidditch World Cup_! The _final_! Her _first ever_ professional match!

"Not all of us," someone said groggily, and the twins dropped down the last few steps into the kitchen, followed by a tousle-haired Hermes. "How come Bill and Charlie and Per-Per-Percy get to sleep in?"

"Well, they'll all be Apparating, won't they?" Mrs Weasley said. "Sit down. Eat your porridge." The boys fell into chairs at the table, and Harriet heard Rhona banging about in the living-room, trying to find the shoe she'd tripped over last night.

"How come we can't use Side-Along Apparition?" Fred grumbled. "There're enough of us. Dad could take two."

"Professor Dumbledore used Side-Along Apparition with me two nights ago," Harriet spoke up over her porridge, which she was sprinkling with brown sugar from the sugar-bowl.

"_Really_?"

"What was it like?"

"Horrible," Harriet wrinkled her nose. "It feels _horrible_. I'm glad we're not Apparating."

"Many wizards don't prefer it," Mr Weasley said sagely, taking out a sheaf of parchment tickets embossed with gold to check them. "The Department of Magical Transportation had to fine a couple the other day, for Apparating without a licence."

"You have to have a licence?" Harriet asked, thinking it sounded a little more like learning to drive a car than catching a train, like Portkeys.

"Oh _yes_," Mr Weasley nodded. "You'll be given lessons at Hogwarts when you're in your sixth year, but until then…This couple I'm talking about went and _splinched_ themselves." Everyone at the table except Harriet—even Hermes—winced.

"Splinched?"

"They left parts of themselves behind," Mr Weasley sighed, shaking his head. Harriet stared at him, appalled, wondering what parts of her would've been left behind if it hadn't been Professor Dumbledore who'd Apparated her. She imagined an eye, her nose and an arm resting on the doorstep of Number 4 for Aunt Petunia to find when she went for the milk-bottles in the morning.

"Were they alright? Does it hurt?"

"Oh, no, it just comes as a bit of a shock," Mr Weasley said soothingly. "The Accidental Magic Reversal Squad patched them up in no time, but they had to modify several memories of the Muggles who'd spotted the parts—and the wizards who'd done it faced a heavy fine—they won't be trying Apparition again any time soon."

"Where _is _Rhona?" Mrs Weasley huffed, storming into the living-room. "_GET UP!!!_"

"Mum, you have a big mouth," Rhona complained groggily, finding herself being dragged into the kitchen, half-dressed and half-asleep. Mrs Weasley sat her down, handed her a cup of tea, and went to find Rhona's jeans and shoes in the living-room. Harriet poured Rhona a cup of strong black coffee, the only things besides sausages that could wake her best-friend in the morning, and finished the last of her porridge—Mrs Weasley re-emerged, shoved Rhona's things at her, and doled out another bowl of porridge to Harriet.

When all were fed, watered, visited the toilet, made sure they had everything they might need for camping overnight outside the stadium, and said goodbye to Mrs Weasley, Mr Weasley stood checking their tickets one last time before tucking them safely into his baggy back-pocket.

"_George_!" Mrs Weasley snapped, making them all jump: it was still early, after all; reflexes weren't as refined as usual yet. George's innocent tone deceived no-one, and Mrs Weasley pointed her wand at George's pocket, snapping "_Accio_."

Several brightly-wrapped sweets made soared across the room into Mrs Weasley's palm. Fred and George both made grabs for them but missed, and Mrs Weasley glowered; Rhona exchanged a glance with Harriet, and they both knew there was an argument coming on.

"We told you to destroy _all of them_!" Mrs Weasley said furiously. "Empty your pockets, the both of you—_Now_." Harriet couldn't help cringing, watching the twins' glowers darken dangerously, as Mrs Weasley pointed her wand several more times, muttering, "Accio" each time; the twins had obviously attempted to smuggle contraband _Weasleys'_ _Wizard_ _Wheezes_ out of the house. Toffees zoomed from the twins' pockets, the lining of George's jacket, and the turn-ups of Fred's jeans.

"We spent six months developing those!" Fred shouted, outraged, his expression at once pained and furious, as Mrs Weasley tossed the toffees into the fire.

"And a _fine_ way to spend six months," Mrs Weasley snapped. "It'll be a wonder you have any O.W.L.s at all when the results come!"

Harriet, Rhona and Hermes couldn't wait to leave the house; neither, it seemed, could the twins; they were both in such a foul mood with their mother that they donned their backpacks and stalked out of the kitchen without a backward glance, nor a goodbye to their mother. Mrs Weasley was still glowering when she said goodbye to her husband, though she was gentler with Harriet and Hermes, and said, "I'll send Bill, Charlie and Percy along around midday."

* * *

Outside, it was still so dark only the whites of Fred and George's trainers were visible as they strode down the lane determinedly towards Ottery St Catchpole. Harriet tugged her backpack onto her back, Hermes took hold of the picnic-basket Mrs Weasley had packed last night, and they both started walking alongside Rhona, who was still too tired and disoriented to do much except stumble along the lane behind her dad, arm-in-arm with Harriet so she didn't trip and fall. It was still cool, the moon still out, but they were approaching daybreak.

They trudged their way towards Ottery St Catchpole, only Mr Weasley making any noise as he hummed complacently to himself, bearing the largest backpack, and Harriet glanced around again as they walked through Ottery St Catchpole. It was strange to think that, only a few miles away, a pure-magic family lived and breathed magic day in and day out. The sky turned from inky midnight-black studded with diamond stars to a velvety blue; Harriet's hands and feet were frozen and tingling unpleasantly, and as they began climbing up Stoatshead Hill, holding on to each other became an impossibility for Harriet and Rhona, who soon found themselves tripping over in rabbit-holes and sliding down several feet on dew-slick patches of moss, grabbing dewy ferns to stop themselves falling. Harriet panted, feeling two knives stabbing her, one in her right side, the other between the sides of her ribcage. When she found level-ground, Harriet staggered into Rhona, who promptly collapsed, panting, on the moss. Having been overcompensating for the weight on her back as she climbed the hill, Harriet bent over, panting, and yelled breathlessly as she pitched forwards, the backpack tugging her down towards earth. Awkwardly, she rolled onto her back and sat up, panting.

"We made very good time—we've still got twenty minutes to find the portkey," Mr Weasley panted, wiping his bald patch with a handkerchief and looking cheerful, though quite flushed. Hermes came over the hill last, staggering, his arms strained by the weight of Mrs Weasley's picnic basket. "Are you girls alright?"

Panting, her legs seized up, stitches in her side, Harriet could only raise one hand feebly, give Mr Weasley the thumbs-up, and collapse beside Rhona against her backpack. She heard Hermes groan and a soft _thud_ as he set the basket down, and felt him sit down beside her.

"Come on, all of you, we need to find the portkey," Mr Weasley said encouragingly. Harriet groaned, rolled onto her hands and knees, and stuck her butt in the air as she tried to hoist herself off the floor, almost staggering down the side of the hill as she underestimated the weight of her backpack and fell backwards. George caught her, and they started scanning the hillside for the portkey, _which could be anything_, Harriet thought, believing it to be a futile task. They had only been going at it for a few minutes before a voice echoed in the darkness.

"Over here, Arthur! Over here, we've got it!" Her heartbeat returning to normal, the stitches in her side and chest lessening, Harriet stumbled over to Mr Weasley, and the two tall figures that had appeared silhouetted against the star-studded sky.

"Amos!" Mr Diggory grinned, striding over to shake hands with the man who had shouted, a ruddy-faced man with a scrubby brown beard, and who was holding a mouldering old boot. "Everyone, this is Amos Diggory. He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric." Harriet pointedly ignored Fred's and George's sniggers as they smirked at her.

Cedric, handsome and very tall, around seventeen, captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team, grinned bashfully around at everyone. "Hi."

"Hi," everyone except Fred and George said in return: Cedric glanced at them, and then at Harriet, who smiled sadly. He nodded slightly and came to stand closer to her.

"They still haven't forgiven me, have they?" he said quietly.

"I think they'll take that grudge to their graves," Harriet said quietly, and Cedric chuckled softly.

"…Had to get up at two, didn't we, Ced?" Mr Diggory was saying, and Harriet glanced up. Cedric nodded, smiling at Mr Weasley. "I'll be glad when he's got his Apparition test, but, still…not complaining…Quidditch World Cup—I wouldn't miss it for a sackful of galleons—All of these yours, Arthur?"

_I wish_, Harriet thought, sighing. Mr Weasley chuckled.

"Oh _no_, only the redheads," he smiled, pointing out the twins and Rhona. "And this is Rhona's good friend Hermes, and Harriet, another very good friend."

"Aaaah," Mr Diggory said slowly, glancing from his son to Harriet, a grin spreading across his face. "Now, just wait one moment! _This_ can't be Harriet Potter?"

"Er…Yeah, it is—I mean, I am," Harriet said, glancing at Cedric, who was smiling embarrassedly.

"Well—Ced's talked about you, of course!" Mr Diggory grinned. "Gets owls from you at _four_ _in_ _the_ _morning_." Fred and George choked with laughter; Harriet felt like she wouldn't be sorry if the hill split in two and swallowed her. Cedric shifted his weight. "Ced's told us all about playing against you last year…I said to him, I said, Ced, that'll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will—you _beat _Harriet Potter!" That stopped Fred and George giggling.

"Dad, Harriet fell off her broom, I told you," Cedric said embarrassedly, blushing and glancing at Harriet. "It was an accident…"

"Well _you_ didn't fall, did you?" Amos Diggory roared genially, grinning as he clapped his son on the back. "Always modest, our Ced; always the gentleman." Harriet remembered Professor Dumbledore saying the same exact thing. "But the best man won, I'm sure you'd say the same, Harriet."

"Yeah—especially since _she_ has breasts," Fred said tartly, and Harriet blurted a laugh, blushing.

"Well…one falls off their broom, the other doesn't," Amos shrugged. "You don't need to be a genius to tell which one's a better flier!"

"Well—she flew magnificently," Rhona said, setting her narrow hip a-jutting in an uncannily Mrs Weasley-ish way, setting her expression so dangerously Harriet wondered why Mr Diggory didn't recoil, "considering about a hundred Dementors were trying to force her to relive her parents' _murders_ before she fell."

"It must be nearly time, now, mustn't it? What time does the portkey go off, Amos?" Mr Weasley asked, sensing they were headed into dangerous territory. While Mr Weasley and Mr Diggory compared notes on who in the area had already gone to the campsite outside the stadium and who hadn't been able to get tickets, the others started wandering around aimlessly, waiting.

"I'm sorry, about my dad," Cedric said embarrassedly, glancing at Harriet; Hermes had captured Rhona's attention, maybe to give them a little privacy, Harriet thought thankfully. "I tried to tell him…"

"It's alright," Harriet smiled. "He's just being proud of you… So, isn't your mother coming?"

"Oh—No, she doesn't really enjoy Quidditch like my dad does," Cedric said, smiling, perhaps glad she wasn't insulted by his father's behaviour. Harriet couldn't see anything wrong with someone being proud of their child—what wouldn't _she_ give to hear those words from her parents' mouths?

"Doesn't enjoy _Quidditch_?" Harriet gaped appalled, and Cedric chuckled at her expression. He cocked his head to one side, regarding her with pale grey eyes that glowed in the moonlight.

"You look very pretty without your glasses, Harriet," he said softly, smiling. Harriet blushed.

"Oh…Thank you," she said quietly. "I'm sorry Rhona's owl woke you all up yesterday."

"Don't worry about it," Cedric smiled. "Dad had only just got back from the Ministry, anyway. He's been working overtime, to make up for having the next few days off."

"Mr Weasley has a few days of too," Harriet said, "in case the game goes on for a long time. Wouldn't it be amazing if it took five days? Mr Weasley said that's what happened at the last final."

"Yeah," Cedric grinned, eyes glowing. "Mind you, your bum would go a bit numb sitting watching it for that long."

"Yeah—and I suppose they'd keep on bringing on substitutes so the players could get some sleep," Harriet said thoughtfully. "So you'd _really_ not be watching the _real_ teams, just substitutes."

"You'd spend a fortune on food, too," Cedric said.

"Oh, I _hope_ it doesn't go on too long," Harriet thought, worried now, at the prospect of sleepless nights and foodless days. Cedric laughed. "What time did your dad say you had to get up?"

"Oh. Two in the morning," Cedric said, rolling his eyes slightly.

"How are you _awake_?" Harriet gaped, barely concealing her own yawn in time. Her eyes watering, she glanced up at Cedric; he was smiling in a way that made Harriet think his excitement burned deep, deep under the surface, so intensely that he was shivering. Or was that the cool breeze?

"I didn't go to sleep," he grinned, flashing his lovely teeth. "Too excited."

"Yeah…When Mrs Weasley came to wake me up, I jumped out of bed when I remembered what day it was," Harriet grinned. "I'll give Charlie Weasley 'nesting-dragon in the morning!' Ha!" Cedric laughed softly.

"Aren't you a morning person, then?" he smiled.

"No," Harriet said dejectedly, yawning again. "Mrs Weasley gave me caffeine…That's bad…I'll crash in a few hours." Cedric chuckled, shaking his head amusedly.

"I think it's time now," Mr Weasley called. "One minute off, come on, gather round—Harriet, Hermes, a finger will do." Harriet, standing squished between Rhona and Cedric, had to duck beneath everyone, stuck a finger onto the toe of the boot, and stood feeling incredibly stupid, and wondered what a group of early-morning Muggle hikers might think if they stumbled across them, eight people, two of them grown men, clutching a manky old boot.

"Three…" Mr Weasley muttered, his eye on his pocket-watch. "Two…one…"

Harriet yelped, feeling something hook onto her navel and jerk upwards powerfully: her feet left the ground, and they were speeding forwards or _somewhere_, her backpack knocking into Rhona and Cedric, in a torrent of sound and colour, her forefinger stuck as if with a Permanent Sticking Charm to the boot.

Her feet slammed into the ground so hard her knees jarred, Rhona staggered into her, and they both fell with a squeal in a heap on the floor, Rhona almost smothering Harriet.

"_Ow_," she groaned, all the air knocked from her lungs as Rhona squirmed on top of her.

"Oh dear, let's help them up, shall we," Mr Diggory chuckled amiably, and, spitting grass and dirt out of her mouth, glad for once she wasn't wearing glasses to break them, Harriet was hauled off the floor by Cedric and Mr Diggory, whilst Mr Weasley brushed Rhona down.

Cedric, Mr Diggory and Mr Weasley alone had remained on their feet, though they all looked windswept; Cedric's cheeks were pleasantly flushed and his eyes sparkled. Harriet wiped the stray shards of grass from her tongue and shook her head, blinking, as she looked around.

"Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill."

* * *

**A.N.**: Harriet's crush on Cedric becomes a prevalent theme in this fic!

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	7. Wizards' Camping

**A.N.**: I liked rewriting this chapter to include some of my own creations—well, not technically: things I think should have gone into the book!

* * *

**Wizards' Camping**

* * *

They had arrived in a meadow, or deserted moor, or something of the sort—she couldn't really tell, as a blanket of early-morning mist covered the ground so that she could only see twenty feet in front of her. A wizard holding a long scroll, tired and grumpy-looking, ticked them off, while the man with the golden pocket-watch clicked it shut. Harriet couldn't help but stare at their outfits; Mr Weasley, a Muggle-lover, was probably the best-informed at how to fit in with Muggles. These two gentlemen wore the oddest assortment of garments Harriet had ever seen; the man with the watch wore a tweed suit with knee-high fishing galoshes, and the other wore a kilt and a bright multi-coloured, crocheted poncho. Harriet caught Hermes' eye and they both bit their lips and smirked.

"Morning, Basil," Mr Weasley said briskly, smiling, as he picked up the boot that had fallen a foot from where Harriet's head had been seconds before.

"Hullo Arthur," the wizard named Basil said wearily. "Not on duty? Alright for some—you'd better get outta the way, all of you—we've got a big party heading in from the Black Forest at five fifteen. Hang on, I'll find your campsite…Weasley…Weasley…"

"Oh yeah! The Black Forest!" Harriet smiled, glancing up at Cedric. "Are the wizards you met there coming to the match?"

"Should be—I dunno if I'll see them, though," Cedric smiled happily. "Dad reckons the stadium seats a hundred thousand." _A hundred thousand!_ Harriet gaped, and Cedric chuckled appreciatively. "I'll be amazed if no one gets lost!"

"A _hundred thousand_!" Harriet gaped. "Where's the Ministry _putting_ everyone?"

"Well, that's the crux, isn't it?" said Mr Diggory, shaking his head and sighing; he stood very close, and Harriet got the impression he might have been eavesdropping. "There just isn't anywhere in Britain to _hold_ a hundred-thousand wizards. Can you imagine that number trying to squeeze onto Platform Nine and Three Quarters? No…Lucky we found this moor, really—we've used so many anti-Muggle precautions, we had the whole Ministry working on the stadium!"

"Mightn't it be dangerous, with a hundred thousand wizards all together like this?" Harriet asked, and Mr Diggory chortled amusedly.

"Mind thinks the right way, girl, I'll give you that," he said, hoisting his backpack higher. "And, yes, you're quite right—things _could_ turn nasty, but we've had our Department of International Magical Co-Operation working overtime to ensure there'll be no illegal duels or foul-play amongst the fans." Harriet was thrown back to her second year at Hogwarts, to Gilda Lockhart's abysmal Duelling Club—where the _intention_ had been to teach them all to Disarm, yet somehow Harriet had managed to show the entire Hall that she could speak Parseltongue!

"At least it's not a grudge-match," Cedric said, grinning. "Can you imagine if it was _England_ versus Ireland?" Harriet, who had been hearing of the trouble in Ireland from Aunt Petunia's radio over the summer, imagined there must be the same animosity between the Irish wizards and the English.

"There'd be mass-riots," Mr Diggory said, shivering, then he grinned. "Looks like we're off." Harriet glanced over towards Basil, and saw that Mr Weasley and the others had started walking off; Mr Weasley waved over his shoulder, and they hurried to catch up.

"All this walking can't be good for me," Harriet panted, clutching the stitch in her side that had redoubled in intensity now. Cedric chuckled softly, strolling along with perfect ease; she cursed her parents for giving her so little height, and therefore, so little leg.

"So…Ced tells me you've never seen a proper Quidditch match before," Mr Diggory said, striding on Harriet's other side. "You're in for a treat, Harriet."

"I hope so," Harriet grinned.

"How long have you been flying for Gryffindor?" Mr Diggory asked.

"Since my first year," Harriet said, and Mr Diggory's eyebrows rose.

"How many Quidditch Cups have you helped win?"

"Well—in my first year, I was unconscious for the last game of the season," Harriet sighed, shaking her head as she remembered Quirrell. "And then, in my second year, they cancelled the tournament. But we won last year."

"Even though Ced _did_ beat you," Mr Diggory conceded, and Harriet caught Cedric rolling his eyes.

"Well—Cedric _is_ a really good flier," Harriet said. She would much rather have Mr Diggory like her than not. "Especially that match—it was the worst storm of the year. I thought I'd be blown off course, you know, 'cause I'm so little. Cedric had the advantage there," she narrowed her eyes up at him, noticing again how much taller he was; he grinned bashfully.

"But _you_ fell off your broom," Mr Diggory said pointedly.

"Dad—"

"Yeah, well, there were Dementors," Harriet shrugged. "When I came too, though, everyone said how Cedric had caught the Snitch, but wanted a rematch when he saw I'd fallen."

"Always the gentleman," Mr Diggory grinned.

"Professor Dumbledore said so too," Harriet said, and Mr Diggory practically clicked his heels when he grinned. "Me too—I don't think anybody else would have played that honourably."

"Are you planning on playing professionally, after Hogwarts?" Mr Diggory asked interestedly; complimenting his son seemed to him to be the best way of gaining his approval.

"I…I don't know. I've never really thought about after Hogwarts," Harriet said blankly, raising her eyebrows at the mossy grass as they crossed the moor. "I suppose…it _would_ be really cool."

* * *

A small stone cottage with neat little windows on the other side of a large cattle gate emerged out of the mist, and further on Harriet could see hundreds of tents rising up the gentle slope of a large field—a dark forest bordered the horizon, slightly eerie-looking in the half-light. A man stood in the doorway of the cottage, and Harriet knew by looking at him that he was the only real Muggle for several miles.

Whilst Hermes assisted Mr Weasley, Harriet had to help Mr Diggory with the Muggle notes to pay for their pitch for the night; Mr Diggory couldn't tell what value the notes were, so Harriet had to pay for him, and Mr Roberts, the Site manager, asked some funny questions, questions that appeared as if he knew something was going on. Mr Diggory and Mr Weasley exchanged uneasy glances, and a wizard in plus-fours Apparated right beside Mr Roberts, his wand trained on him, and in a bored tone said "_Obliviate_" and Harriet saw the unmistakable signs of someone who was having their memory modified.

"A map of the campsite for you," said Mr Roberts, his eyes still slightly out of focus, "and your change."

"Been having a lot of trouble with him," said the wizard in plus-fours, as they moved away from the cottage. "Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy—and Ludo Bagman isn't helping—trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his lungs! Not a worry about security! I'll be glad when this is all over. See you later, Arthur, Amos."

"What's Bagman playing at, talking about Quidditch near Muggles?" Mr Diggory growled, shaking his head disapprovingly as they walked off towards the tents.

"Ludo's always been a bit…well…_lax_ about security," Mr Weasley said. "We couldn't wish for a more enthusiastic Head of Department, though, could we, Amos—and he was a _great_ Quidditch player in his time." He glanced at Harriet. "Ludo was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had—_and_ he played for England himself."

"Oh, I remember that last World Cup!" Mr Diggory said, his eyes glazing over as he beamed happily. "England beat Botswana four-hundred and ninety to twenty. It was the cleanest game I've ever seen, too."

While Mr Diggory filled everyone in on the last Quidditch World Cup game the English had ever reached the finals in, Harriet couldn't help glancing around, trying to see everything, as they made their way through the campsite. Most tents were normal, _Muggle_, but some wizards had ruined the effects of normalcy by adding bell-pulls and chimneys; scattered around the campsite were tents so extraordinary that Harriet didn't wonder Mr Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood a palace of striped silk, with several beautiful peacocks tethered outside the entrance. One tent had three floors and turrets; another had a front-garden attached complete with blooming flowerbeds, birdbath, sundial and fountain.

"We can't resist showing off when we get together," Mr Weasley chuckled, shaking his head at the robins twittering happily in the birdbath. "It's always the same." Mr Weasley and Mr Diggory stopped them at the very edge of the wood, where two small pitches stood side-by-side and empty between a lilac-satin tent sponsored by _Madam Primpernelle's Salon_ with three very beautiful witches sipping raspberry-coloured tea from delicate tulip-shaped tea-glasses, and a sky-blue tent spangled with gold and silver starbursts, over the entrance of which fluttered a banner for _Witch Weekly_, with a woman and a man both scribbling furiously on long pieces of parchment; they called hellos to Mr Weasley and Mr Diggory, who grinned genially—the woman caught sight of Harriet and began a fresh sheaf of parchment. The tents opposite their pitch were for _Gladrags Wizardwear_—the witch and two wizards grinned at Mr Weasley, waving, all three bedecked in fabulous shamrock-green robes—and _Quality Quidditch Supplies_, the displays of which the boys all gazed at longingly.

"Sponsors," Mr Weasley said, waving to the _Gladrags_ wizards. The sign hammered into the grass into Mr Weasley's pitch read _WEEZLY, _the Diggorys, _DIGEREE_. "The stadium is just the other side of the forest there—we couldn't ask for a better spot!" Mr Weasley grinned. "We're as close as could be." Grateful that, finally, they had reached their destination and could catch their breath, Harriet and Rhona and the twins and Hermes and Cedric dropped their luggage to the ground and stood panting. She glanced around, and Harriet had to blink, sure her contacts had starting playing up—

"Er…is it just me, or has everything gone green?" Rhona asked, and Harriet breathed easy, knowing it wasn't just her. A patch of tents absolutely covered in thick growths of shamrocks, so that each tent looked more like a miniature hill than anything else, stood to the side of the _Quality Quidditch Supplies _tent, the only disillusioning thing about them being the open flaps, revealing grinning faces. It was then that they heard their names—"Harriet! Rhona! Hermes!" Out of the sea of green, Harriet squinted, then grinned, recognising the sandy hair and grinning face of Seamus Finnigan, one of the boys in Hermes' dormitory. Seamus was sitting outside his shamrock-covered hillock eating sausages and beans, with Dean Thomas, also a fourth-year like them, and a sandy-haired woman who could only be Seamus' mother. They went over to say hello; Seamus grinned, showing off the shamrocks, which were actually _very_ real.

"Why shouldn't we show our colours?" Mrs Finnigan scoffed. "We haven't had national exposure like this in decades. Anyway, you should see what the _Bulgarians_ have got spread all over _their_ tents. You'll be supporting Ireland." Mrs Finnigan didn't look the sort of woman to disagree with.

"Absolutely!" Harriet grinned. "If we didn't, Seamus would never let us forget it!" Mrs Finnigan chuckled, appeased.

"Hey—Harriet, why do you look so…_weird_?" Seamus asked suddenly, and his mother smacked him round the back of the head, rolling her eyes exasperatedly.

"I got contact-lenses," Harriet said, blushing furiously, and glancing at Dean, who raised his eyebrows appraisingly as he examined her face.

"You actually look like a _girl_ without those ugly great glasses you used to wear," Dean remarked, and Mrs Finnigan just shook her head, rolling her eyes.

"Er…Thanks?" Harriet said sardonically, blushing again with embarrassment.

"Well, you do, Harriet, you look a lot prettier without them," Hermes agreed soothingly.

"Harriet! Rhona! Hermes!"

"Oh, sorry, we'd better get back," Hermes smiled.

"It was nice to meet you, Mrs Finnigan," Harriet smiled, and they had to drag Rhona away from Seamus, discussing Quidditch tactics of the Irish National Team.

"Right," Mr Weasley beamed excitedly, "no magic allowed, strictly speaking—Ministry orders, not when we're gathered like this on Muggle land. We'll be putting our tent up by hand! Shouldn't be too difficult…Muggles do it all the time…here, Harriet, where do you reckon we should start?"

Hermes, who had been a Scout before Hogwarts, had a better idea of what needed doing, considering Harriet had never been on holiday in her life before, (she didn't like to count the weeks she spent at Mrs Figg's house when the Dursleys went away) but together they managed to figure out the instructions—though Harriet had to banish Mr Weasley to the corner of their pitch to talk to Mr Diggory (while Cedric put up his and his father's tent) because he got thoroughly overexcited about the mallet—and together they managed to erect a very rudimentary two-man tent.

Harriet and Hermes both stood back to admire their handiwork and exchange worried looks. While Harriet was very small and wouldn't take up much space (and wouldn't mind sleeping under the stars), by the time Bill, Charlie and Percy arrived, they would be _nine_ in number. And Rhona was so tall her feet would probably stick out the tent-flap if she lay down. Mr Weasley dropped to his knees and entered the tent first.

"We'll be a bit cramped," he called, "but it's only for one night."

Harriet shuffled into the tent next, on her hands and knees, and when she glanced up, her jaw dropped. "_WHOA_!"

* * *

It was something out of Arabian Nights: there were silks draped everywhere, little ante-chambers for bunk-beds and a full dining-area, a fully-working kitchen complete with stove and a full china service, a bathroom with a large bathtub and working shower, and a sitting-area complete with squashy sofas and floor cushions. Someone nudged her and Harriet staggered to her feet, gazing around. She caught Hermes' eye and they both laughed, shaking their heads.

"If my tent when I was with Scouts was anything like this, I might've actually _enjoyed_ camping," Hermes chuckled, grinning, his overlarge front-teeth flashing in the light of the Moroccan lantern hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Mr Weasley picked the lid off the dusty teapot and frowned.

"We'll need water," he said quietly.

"There's a water spigot on the map the Muggle gave us," Rhona said, emerging into the tent and looking completely unimpressed by the sheer luxury of the tent.

"Well, why don't you, Harriet and Hermes go and collect some water," Mr Weasley suggested, handing over several large saucepans and the kettle. "We'll gather some wood for a fire."

"But we've got a stove—"

"Anti-Muggle precautions, Rhona," Mr Weasley said, his face shining with excitement. "When real Muggles camp, they eat off fires outdoors, don't they Hermes?"

"Yup," Hermes nodded, glancing at Harriet and rolling his eyes amusedly. Banging their saucepans together, Rhona with her nose in the map of the campsite, and Hermes swinging the kettle happily, they made their way through the campsite. Harriet had slung her camera over her neck so she could document things, like Sirius had asked, as if he was with them. Dawn had passed them by while they'd put up the tent, and in the early-morning sunlight (it was a clear blue sky, no sign of clouds anywhere, and it was already getting warm) the mist had evaporated, revealing a city of tents as far as she could see. As they walked, Harriet noticed that most people—people with young families to take care of—were waking; a little toddler was squatted down, poking a wand at a slug, which was growing in size to the proportions of a salami: his harassed-looking mother, in fluffy slippers and a dressing-gown, came out of the tent and promptly stepped on the slug, bursting it to her disgust all over her slipper; "You _don't touch Daddy's wand, Kevin_." The air was punctuated several tents afterwards by little Kevin's wails of "You bust slug! You bust slug!"

Two little witches, maybe three or four, were hovering around the guy-ropes of their tent on miniature toy-brooms. As Harriet, Hermes and Rhona approached, one of them fell off her broom and started to wail. A Ministry wizard was bustling his way towards the girls, looking very scary. Harriet handed her saucepans over to Hermes and approached the crying girl.

"Hullo," she said gently, crouching down to smile at her. The little girl's face was shining with tears. "Have you got an owie?" The girl whimpered, and her sister dismounted; Harriet lifted the crying girl (who had two bloody knees) onto her hip, and the second girl carried the brooms back to the tent-flap, calling "_Mummy_!" Harriet poked her head around, saw the girls' parents having a cup of tea on their sofa, listening to the Wizarding wireless, and smiled bashfully.

"Sorry—your little girl's fallen off her broom," she said, carrying her into the tent. Their mother tutted and came to collect her daughter; she caught sight of Harriet's scar (which she'd always tried to hide with her hair) and started fussing so much that her daughter's injuries were forgotten—at least until after her husband had caught several photographs of their twins with _famous Harriet Potter_.

She couldn't get out of the tent fast enough, flushed; Rhona and Hermes exchanged a look and rolled their eyes; Hermes grinned, chuckling, correctly interpreting her considerably long absence. As they walked on, more wizards were emerging and starting fires for their breakfasts; Hermes had a few shining moments, aiding the wizards who were trying to stick to the anti-Muggle precautions by using matches, showing them how to use them properly; most wizards conjured fires with their wands after checking no Ministry representatives were lurking around.

Three African wizards in startlingly white robes sat in serious conversation, roasting a rabbit on a bright purple fire; the _Salem Witches' Institute _a few tents away were a group of young American witches gossiping excitedly—most unfortunately, Harriet tripped over with a loud clang of her saucepans and, laughing loudly, Rhona snorted, "You're such a numpty, Potter," which the witches all heard, glanced over to see what the commotion was, and saw Harriet's scar. She was subjected to fifteen minutes' chattering with the witches, had her photograph taken at least fifty times by the overexcited youngest witch, and when Harriet ran off, walking very fast with her shoulders hunched, Rhona giggling madly as she and Hermes followed.

The red, green and white flag of Bulgaria flew high over the tents a few paces away—evidently they had chosen their pitches a safe enough distance from the shamrock-bedecked Irish tents that there wouldn't be any foul-play amongst supporters—and Rhona led the way over, wondering aloud what the Bulgarians had decorated _their_ tents with.

"You know," Harriet said, sighing softly as she glanced around at the tents as they passed, "I reckon I could live in _any_ one of these tents, and be perfectly happy for the rest of my life."

"Definitely a step up from the cupboard under the stairs," Hermes smiled, hooking his arm around her neck, and Harriet's eyes widened when they approached the Bulgarian tents. Posters had been draped everywhere, always with the same subject; a heavy-lidded, dark-haired teenaged girl with a surly expression. All the posters did was blink and glare.

"Krum."

"Huh?"

"Viktoria Krum," Rhona said, gazing around at the tents. "The Bulgarian Seeker."

"She looks miserable," Hermes remarked, and Harriet agreed. If _she_ was _England's_ starting Seeker, well, she'd probably have been white and green and trembling all over at the prospect of a hundred thousand wizards turning out to see her get her arse handed to her, but still…she'd have shown a little enthusiasm.

"'_Miserable_'!" Rhona blurted. "Hermes, she's only the best Seeker in the International League—_which_ _means_ _the world_! She's unbelievable—you'll see, tonight; she's a _genius_. Only just eighteen or something, she's fantastic. And since when do you care what people look like?"

"I don't," Hermes said indignantly. "I was just saying…she couldn't _smile_? Harriet always smiles, even if she's feeling really awkward."

They reached the water spigot, by which was now a small queue, but Harriet and Rhona had to duck out of the line, overcome with hysterical giggles that made tears stream down their faces, due to old Archie wearing a floral fluffy dressing-gown—with _nothing_ _underneath_, and the Ministry wizard trying desperately to get him into a pair of pinstripe trousers. They carried the saucepans slowly and carefully from the spigot, and on the way back to the tent met several more people they knew.

Oliver Wood dragged Harriet over to meet his parents, who were ecstatic to finally meet the girl Oliver always talked about synonymously with Quidditch: he had been signed to the reserve team of Puddlemere United. Next, Ernie Macmillan hailed them over to meet his parents and his younger siblings: Ernie had once accused Harriet of setting a dirty great Basilisk on the students of Hogwarts, due to her ability to speak Parseltongue and lack of evidence to suggest it was anyone else making the attacks; he had apologised when Hermes had been attacked, knowing Harriet would never have set a Basilisk on her friend. Munching on homemade shortbread, after a quick cup of tea from Mrs Macmillan, they passed Cho Chang's tent—she was the very pretty, very popular, very talented Ravenclaw Seeker, and introduced Harriet, Rhona and Hermes to her parents, who beamed, not in the least bit annoyed that Harriet had beaten their daughter every time they'd come to a head on the Quidditch pitch.

Further on, when Harriet was just beginning to feel like they _might_ get back to the tent by lunchtime, she heard her name being called and a loud whistle: she glanced to her right and grinned when Cedric waved from amid a large group of teenagers she had never seen before. He waved them over, grinning, and Harriet was introduced to the German students Cedric had met in the Black Forest, who all spoke very good English and were very excited to meet her; Cedric had told them about playing Quidditch against her at Hogwarts, and everyone wanted to know what the _Firebolt_ felt like, riding it. Their breakfast was already spread out on a picnic table covered with a red-and-white check tablecloth, a basket of brötchen, dishes of unsweetened yoghurt, muesli, platters of cold meats and pots of jam and marmalade and honey, and they were all eating on little cushions, and encouraged them to grab plates and help themselves. Hermes, who had been brought up by parents who spoke several languages, was trying out his German on several pretty witches who smiled and helped him when he couldn't find the right word; meanwhile Rhona was getting into an argument over the odds for the match with two good-looking wizards, one of whom was very tall and was looking at her with particular interest. One of the wizards Harriet was talking to had a Transylvanian aunt and gave her a blow-by-blow account of how abominably the English team had played against them, having been to see the match with his cousins.

When Cedric left to return to his father's tent, they joined him, thanking the German witches and wizards with the titbits of their language they had been told by Hermes to say 'thank you', grinning, and Cedric helped carry a few saucepans to the Weasleys' tent, but disappeared into his own before the twins could see him.

* * *

**A.N.**: Yes, Krum is now female! Otherwise how would I pair Hermes Granger with him/her! And the tall German who Rhona was talking to will _be back_!

* * *


	8. Bagman and Crouch

**A.N.**: This chapter's just a short one. Don't particularly like Bagman _or_ Crouch, but playing with Bill's hair is fun!

* * *

**Bagman and Crouch**

* * *

"What took you so long?" George moaned, sprawled in a folding butterfly chair, massaging his stomach, glowering. Fred had his arms thrown out across a foldable picnic table with seats attached, whimpering weakly in hunger.

"Met some people," Harriet and Rhona grinned.

"Where's the fire?" Rhona asked, glancing around.

"Dad's been playing with the matches," Fred grumbled into the plastic of the folding blue picnic-table. Sure enough, Mr Weasley was having so much fun attempting to light a box of matches that the ground was littered with snapped matches: he was so surprised when he actually managed to light one that he promptly dropped it, extinguishing it. Hermes went to go and get a handful of pine needles from the forest floor and a few pinecones and Harriet helped him with the matches.

It was a long time before the fire was hot enough to cook anything, so while Fred and George fainted about, moaning about their stomachs, (Harriet, Rhona and Hermes were feeling quite full, after sausages from Mrs Finnigan, shortbread and tea from Mrs Macmillan, and the breakfast from the German students) Mr Weasley turned on the Wizarding wireless to _Witching Hour_, which attracted the witches from the _Madam Primpernelle's_ tent, and Mr Weasley started up a running commentary: their tent seemed to be right on the edge of an avenue, used as a thoroughfare for Ministry employees going to and from the pitch. He spoke mostly for Harriet and Hermes' benefits, as his own children knew too much about the Ministry and their father's work to care.

"That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office…here comes Gilbert Wimple, from the Committee on Experimental Charms—he's had those horns for a while now," Mr Weasley said, as Harriet tried not to stare.

"I think I'll cross _that_ off my list of future career choices," remarked Rhona, smirking, but massaging her stomach again already.

"Hello Arnie! That was Arnold Peasegood. He's an Obliviator, a member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad (he punctured your aunt last summer, Harriet) and that's Bode and Croaker, they're Unspeakables."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Unspeakables—in the Department of Mysteries. Nobody knows what _they_ get up to, top-secret, of course," Mr Weasley said, waving genially. _Witching Hour_ over for the morning, the witches of _Madam Primpernelle's_ had turned to Fred and George, who were having a very animated conversation about Beautifying Potions, and their creation.

* * *

By the time a song by Electric Light Orchestra came on to announce the beginning of _Muggle Matinee_, Harriet was just cracking the eggs onto a skillet, Hermes cutting the length of sausages with a pair of scissors, and the kettle boiling over the fire, the freshly-dusted teapot waiting with eight teacups and saucers, for the Diggorys had joined them after a short nap.

"Oh! Looks like we'll need some more cups," Mr Weasley said, waving vigorously. "Over here, boys!" Bill, Charlie and Percy came sauntering leisurely out of the wood, looking bright-eyed and well-rested. Mr Weasley disappeared into the tent, returning with three more teacups and saucers.

"Just Apparated, Dad," Percy said, with a smug look at Fred and George. "Ah, excellent—lunch!" He reached for one of the plates onto which Harriet was disposing a serving of eggs and sausages; Harriet smacked him over the back of the hand with her tongs, glaring.

"_We_ haven't even had breakfast yet," she said dangerously. "You can wait. Georgie, wake up." She wafted the scents of the plate beneath George's nose, reviving him from his stupor of hunger, and after everyone had a plate of breakfast, she served Bill, Charlie and Percy their _lunch_.

"Did you cook at home, Harriet?" Bill asked interestedly, accepting the bottle of ketchup with a grin.

"Yeah—Aunt Petunia made me," Harriet sighed, grabbing a cushion from inside the tent, to sit cross-legged with her plate of food, and the teacup Mr Weasley passed her with freshly-brewed tea.

"These taste amazing," Charlie said, squirming happily as he wolfed down the scrambled eggs.

"I grated some cheese into them," Harriet said, happily: she liked being complimented on her cooking, because at Privet Drive she was never thanked for anything she did. She and Hermes had already gone through the picnic-basket Mrs Weasley had packed and stored the good stuff in the tent-kitchen for a mid-afternoon luncheon, but she'd grated part of a block of cheddar cheese into the eggs. The sausages were blackened but not burnt, full of flavour. They were halfway through their meals when Mr Weasley jumped into the air, waving and grinning.

"The man of the hour—Ludo!" Harriet, sipping her tea, almost choked when she saw Ludo Bagman. Instead of sticking to Ministry guidelines for anti-Muggle precautions, Mr Bagman had taken a leaf out of old Archie's book, except he'd outdone the old man: Mr Bagman wore a set of striped black and yellow robes with a wasp splashed across his chest; the robes were stretched slightly across a belly that definitely had not been his when Mr Bagman played for the Wimbourne Wasps; he had the look of a well-built man who'd let himself go slightly over the years.

In his looks, Harriet was reminded of Norah Longbottom, whose kind, round face always gave the correct impression of sweetness and innocence; Mr Bagman's face was round, his cheeks flushed, his forget-me-not blue eyes glittered, his nose was squashed (probably by a stray Bludger) and his short blonde hair was windswept as if he'd just slipped off his broom. He looked like a schoolboy's head had been transplanted onto a middle-aged man's body. He walked with springs attached to the bottoms of his feet, grinning broadly.

"Ahoy, there, Arthur! Amos, hullo!" he called genially, bounding over to them. "What a day! What a _day_! A cloudless night coming! What perfect weather!" Percy rushed forward: Apparently his disapproval of Mr Bagman's work-ethic wasn't enough to stop him sucking up; Fred and George made kissy noises at him as he shook Mr Bagman's hand.

"This is my third-born, Ludo, Percy—he's just started working in the Department of International Magical Co-Operation—and that's Bill, and Charlie—that's Fred, no, sorry, that's _George_—_that's_ Fred, this is my daughter Rhona, and her friends Hermes Granger and Harriet Potter."

Bagman's wide blue eyes performed the now-familiar flicker upwards to Harry's scar, after he did a small double-take at Mr Weasley's introductions.

"Everyone," Mr Weasley grinned, "this is Ludo Bagman—it's thanks to him we've got such fantastic tickets!" Bagman grinned, chuckling, and waved a hand expressively as if to say 'it's nothing.'

"Hey, Teeny, are there any more sausages?" Charlie asked, as Mr Bagman coerced Mr Weasley, Fred and George into betting on the match (Mr Weasley disapproving, worried of Mrs Weasley finding out) and Harriet filled Charlie's plate again; Bill pulled out a deck of Exploding Snap cards and dealt out hands to Harriet, Rhona, Charlie and himself (Hermes had turned to talk to Percy about his report, and what it was like now, outside Hogwarts, and how he was finding work). Harriet filled their teacups again, and called to Mr Bagman.

"Mr Bagman, would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, holding up a clean teacup from the kitchen, and wondering if there wasn't an unlimited supply of them in the cupboard. Mr Bagman grinned and nodded, accepting the tea from her with thoroughly too much enthusiasm for what it was. He sprawled on the ground next to Mr Weasley, talking about Percy's boss, Mr Crouch, and Bertha Jorkins. Harriet took her hand of cards and she and Rhona consulted.

"Alright, that's a nine for Bill," Charlie smirked (they were playing poker, which one of Charlie's Muggle-born friends back in his Hogwarts days had taught him to play) "and a seven for St Catchpole Skinny and her faithful sidekick Shrimpo."

"Hey! I'm not a shrimpo!" Harriet said indignantly.

"Right, teeny," Bill said, "hit me!" Charlie dealt him another card and they both snickered. "Twenty-one on the nose."

"That's not fair!" Harriet blurted indignantly, rising onto her knees. "He can add!" The boys collected their prizes—the last two sausages—and someone Apparated with a soft _pop_ right by their fireside. He was so impeccably well-dressed that Harriet stared for a moment, wondering if the House of Lords wasn't missing a member. Mr Crouch was an elderly man with short grey hair parted unnaturally straight, with a narrow toothbrush moustache, and was wearing a crisp suit and tie, with shoes so highly polished Harriet wondered if she'd be able to change her contact lenses in front of them. Next to Ludo Bagman, Mr Crouch looked almost vindictive.

"No wonder Percy loves him," Rhona whispered to Harriet, who nodded in agreement. She doubted whether even Uncle Vernon would mistake Mr Crouch for anything but a stock-broker or a high-powered court judge.

"Ludo! I've been looking for you everywhere! The Bulgarians are insisting we add another dozen chairs in the Top Box," Mr Crouch said, and his voice was touched with perpetual impatience. It was no wonder, Harriet thought, that Percy idolised him. Harriet prodded the embers of the fire and brought the kettle back to boil; Percy had snatched the teacup out of her hand before she could finish stirring the milk in, and was sinking into a hunchbacked bow in front of his boss.

"Oh!" Mr Crouch said, glancing at Percy as if in surprise at seeing him. "Thank you, Weatherby." Fred and George choked into their teacups; Rhona blurted a loud laugh, Harriet almost spit out a gulp of tea all over Cedric, and Percy's ears went very red. Charlie and Bill looked like they were trying very hard not to tease their younger-brother; Charlie's lips were twitching and Bill had to conceal his wide grin and silent giggles with a sheet of his hair, which he had let out of its ponytail to comb through with his fingers, before sobering up his expression and tying his hair back with a band.

"…well, it's not like there's going to be nothing to keep us entertained after the Cup—Eh, Barty, eh? Plenty left to organise."

"We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details—"

"Oh, details," Mr Bagman gestured expressively with his hand again. "They've signed, haven't they, they've agreed, haven't they? I'll wager these kids will know soon enough, anyway—it's happening at Hogwarts, after all—"

"Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians," Mr Crouch said sharply. "Thank you for the tea, Weatherby."

"See you all later," Mr Bagman grinned amiably, struggling to his feet and downing the last of his tea. "You're in the Top Box with me—I'm commentating. Cheerio!" They both Disapparated with one tiny _pop_.

"What's happening at Hogwarts?" Fred and George blurted instantly, glancing at their father eagerly.

"You'll find out soon enough," Mr Weasley smiled, exchanging a look with Mr Diggory, not giving anything away.

"It's classified information until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it," Percy snapped irritably.

"Oh, shut up, Weatherby."

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review!

* * *


	9. Inside the Top Box

**A.N.**: You'll learn a little about Harriet's background with Malfoy in this chapter. And I had fun deciding what the saleswizards and saleswitches would be selling outside the Quidditch stadium!

* * *

**Inside the Top Box**

* * *

As darkness spread across the campsite like a blanket, studded with stars that appeared as large as if they'd been standing in the topmost turret of the Astronomy Tower at Hogwarts, the Ministry seemed to have given in to the inevitable, for there seemed to be no check on the magic performed after dusk; there was too much excitement; the air shimmered with it, so much so that they could almost _taste_ it.

"Free samples, girls," the _Madam Primpernelle's Salon_ witches cooed, smiling beautifully behind their stall draped with real silver fairies, handing out large lilac bags stuffed with free product samples and coupons.

"Twenty percent off your subscription fee with these coupons, dears," the smiling _Witch Weekly_ correspondent beamed, flourishing two magazines and several parchment coupons at them; Harriet and Rhona grinned at each other and joined Hermes over by the _Gladrags Wizardwear_ stall (Harriet got about a half-dozen coupons free when the wizards saw who she was), and Harriet had a long conversation over at the _Quality Quidditch Supplies_ tent with the wizard who'd overheard Fred and George talking about Harriet's _Firebolt_, and then, every few feet from each other, sales-wizards started Apparating along the path through the tents to the wood, which was marked with strings of green and red lanterns just outside the tents, bobbing like luminous apples.

They were selling the oddest assortment of things Harriet had ever seen. She could imagine Daisy's face if she'd seen everything there was to offer; the things here easily put to shame everything Daisy had ever brought back from pop-concerts her mother bought tickets for Daisy and her friends, for birthdays that Harriet was never allowed to be a part of.

Her coin-purse burning a hole, eager to be spent, Harriet grinned as Rhona tugged out her old little purse and together with Hermes went around, examining and admiring the souvenirs. A witch Apparated in front of them, grinning broadly, and selling headbands of shamrocks that burst like mini silent firework displays of all shades of green and silver with glitter that fell, shimmering, to the floor, and ropes of little glass shamrock beads that glowed luminously in the darkness; Harriet bought a headband and necklaces, and Rhona grabbed a necklace too: another wizard was selling signed posters of the competing teams; Harriet tucked a poster of the Irish National Team, with the date of the match, into her _Madam Primpernelle's _bag and they each bought a luminous green rosette that squeaked the names of the Irish National Team players.

"I've been saving my pocket-money _all summer _for this," Rhona grinned, exchanging some Sickles for a miniature figure of Viktoria Krum, despite having already bought herself a luminous green rosette and an Irish flag, which sang the national anthem upon being waved.

"_Wow_!" Harriet gaped, rushing over to a large cart piled high with the strangest pairs of binoculars Harriet had ever seen—they were brass, absolutely covered with knobs and dials and buttons.

"Omnioculars," the sales-wizard grinned eagerly. "You can replay action, slow everything down, and they flash a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. Omnioculars—Bargain—Ten galleons each!" Harriet noticed Rhona gazing longingly at the omnioculars, and sadly at her Krum figurine, who was scowling at the rosette pinned to Rhona's jumper.

"Three pairs, please," Harriet smiled at the wizard, who accepted Harriet's gold and handed her three pairs of the curious binoculars.

"No—don't bother, Harriet, you don't need to—" Rhona began, her cheeks and ears going red: Rhona had always been very touchy about not having much money, something Harriet usually forgot because the Weasleys had such a rich lifestyle.

"You won't be getting anything for Christmas, _or_ your birthday," Harriet said, smacking one pair of omnioculars into Rhona's hand. "For the next ten years, mind."

"Deal," Rhona grinned. She raised the omnioculars to her eyes, gazed through them at Harriet (who stuck out her tongue and pulled a face) and giggled. "Mad! I can make you do that again…and again…and again!"

"Ooh, thank you, Harriet," Hermes beamed. "I think I'll get us some programmes… We can keep _them_ for ages to come."

"Trust him—always practical," Rhona laughed, as Hermes went over to a wizard selling spiffy-looking programme books. Harriet, noticing from afar that Fred and George were walking around looking pained, realised that because they had given their money to Mr Bagman, they had none to spend on merchandise: She made her way back to the tent with Hermes and Rhona, and grinned mischievously as she placed her headband on George. Cedric laughed, standing beside him bedecked in a rosette, luminous hat and shamrocks painted on his cheeks my Mrs Finnigan.

"Oh _yes_, very you!" she grinned at George, winking at Cedric; she lifted her camera, took the lens-cap off, and snapped a photograph of George fluttering his eyelashes coquettishly, wearing the glittering, firework headband, Cedric laughing at him.

"I think it's more _your _colour, Harriet," George chuckled good-naturedly, and Harriet ducked into the tent quickly, to run a brush through her hair, smooth her hair away from her face with the headband, and tugged her little twist-and-lock black faux-leather bag from her backpack, disposing a few extra rolls of film, her money, and her wand inside it, and looped it over her head, making sure her necklaces didn't catch, or the rosette; she put her _Madam Primpernelle's _bag on her bunkbed so she didn't lose it and joined the others outside.

* * *

A deep gong echoed inside the wood, and instantly red and green lanterns sprang to life inside the trees, lighting their way. Mr Weasley did a sort of jig of excitement, Mrs Finnigan, Seamus and Dean roared with enormous grins, and, grinning from ear to ear, they were ushered into the woods: Hermes walking in the middle, hand-in-hand with both Harriet and Rhona, Cedric laughing with him as they discussed some academic subject Harriet had little interest in because she was so excited, they made their way into the woods, following Mr Weasley, Bill and Charlie, with Fred and George lagging behind to chat up some pretty American witches from the _Salem Witches' Institute_.

The atmosphere was infectious: Harriet felt her cheeks burn from grinning so hard as she, Hermes and Rhona practically ran to keep up with the others, giggling whenever they stumbled, joking loudly, jostled about by the crowd. Thousands were making their way to the stadium, which slowly emerged through the trees on the other side, and Harriet had to crane her neck, her jaw slackening in awe, as she saw only a fraction of the gigantic golden walls.

"Seats a hundred thousand," Mr Weasley shouted over the noise, grinning at Harriet's expression. "Ministry task-force of five-hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle-Repelling Charms on every inch of the place!" They all locked arms, giggling, singing "_Nine in the bed, and the little one said, 'Roll Over,_'" with Harriet tagging along at the end of the line, easily the shortest, littlest amongst them, the 'baby,' as Charlie called her. When she squealed and broke ranks with Hermes as a group of surly-looking Bulgarian supporters barged into them, Charlie Weasley came back, hoisted her onto his shoulders, and carried her to the nearest entrance; Rhona took Harriet's camera and snatched photographs as a Ministry witch examined their tickets.

"Prime seats! Top Box, Arthur. Straight upstairs, and as high as you can go."

"The Top Box has good seats, doesn't it?" Hermes asked, to deep rumbling laughs from Charlie (whom Harriet thought spent a little too much time around the dragons he loved, and was beginning to sound like them).

"Good seats—they're _the best_!" Rhona grinned from ear-to-ear, dancing up and down, looking like a maniac. "Best money can buy! Of course—Dad got 'em for free 'cos he's so well-connected, and everyone loves 'im, right Dad?"

"If you, your mother and the boys love me, then that's all that matters," Mr Weasley grinned, his face shining with anticipation, as they made their way through the golden gate to the stairs.

"Charlie, aren't you tired of carrying me?" Harriet asked, bobbing along on his strong, broad shoulders, but Charlie just laughed, hands gripping her knees so she couldn't fall off his shoulders, and continued to climb up the purple-carpeted stairs. At the very top of the staircase, he let her off his shoulders, and Harriet paid twenty-two sickles for eleven sweating Butterbeers sold by a vendor, and carried them into the Top Box.

* * *

The Top Box was situated exactly halfway between the golden goalposts, a small box with almost two dozen gilt chairs upholstered with purple, standing in two rows. The Weasleys were filing into the first row, a space saved beside Rhona for her. She handed the Weasleys their drinks and gave one to Hermes, grinning as they echoed their thanks and snapped the lids off. Rhona, who still had Harriet's camera, snapped several photographs of Harriet and Hermes and Cedric grinning and drinking their Butterbeers, then gave the camera to Charlie, who was sitting on Rhona's other side, who took photographs of them; Harriet took some of Charlie with Rhona and Bill, and the twins, and she turned to shake her head in awe at the indescribable scene laid out before her.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards, a riot of colour in their red and green memorabilia, were filing into golden stands that rose in levels around a large oval, which could easily have housed ten cathedrals comfortably, and with room to spare. Added to the green and red was a strange luminous golden glow that seemed to emanate from the stadium itself, making everything appear glowing and more beautiful than usual. Directly across the stadium from the Top Box was an enormous chalkboard: gold writing kept scrawling across it, as if an invisible giant stood there writing it, wiping it off again for a new advertisement—

_The Bluebottle, a Broom for __the Entire Family— safe, reliable, and with In-Built Anti-Burglar Buzzer… Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover… Madam Primpernelle's Salon—for the lady who loves luxury; Paris, London, New York, Hogsmeade…Witch Weekly—tantalise your taste-buds with brand-new recipes every fortnight…Gladrags Wizardwear—London, Paris, Hogsmeade_…

"This place is amazing," Hermes was whispering, as awed as Harriet, scanning the crowd slowly with his omnioculars. Harriet sipped her icy Butterbeer and grinned around, still trying to take it all in.

"Mr Weasley?" she called gently, and Mr Weasley, polishing his glasses on his robes, grinned back at her. "Um…D'you think I could keep one of the tickets, as a keepsake, you know?" Mr Weasley grinned, stood up, and handed out the gold-embossed parchment tickets to everyone. Harriet took hers, examining the embossed gold, the elegant, scrolling handwriting that reminded her so much of Professor Dumbledore's handwriting that she wondered vaguely whether he was here, tonight.

She wondered so much that she glanced over to see who else was sharing the Top Box with them, and whether Professor Dumbledore would not be too busy to miss the World Cup Final! It was empty, except for a tiny little creature that couldn't be mistaken for anything but a house-elf, wearing a crisp white tea-towel like a toga: the elf was so short its legs stuck out on the chair in front of it, and it had its face hidden in its hands for some reason; those bat-like ears were oddly familiar, Harriet thought.

"_Dobby_?" she asked incredulously. How on earth had Dobby managed to get prime tickets to the wizards' Quidditch World Cup? She couldn't imagine he'd ever seen a Quidditch match, besides the one he'd sent a Bludger after Harriet to try and beat her into submission and leave Hogwarts.

It wasn't Dobby—as distinguishable as Dobby's features had been, this house-elf was perhaps even more memorable; it had the same bat-like ears, but its eyes were brown, when it parted its long, spindly fingers, and its nose was the size and shape of a tomato.

"Did Miss just call me Dobby?" the house-elf squeaked. Harriet couldn't be sure, as most house-elves (the one she had already met, anyway) had a high, squeaky voice, but the pitch of _this_ elf's voice was considerably higher even than Dobby's had been. Therefore Harriet assumed that this house-elf must be female.

"Er—Sorry," Harriet apologised, flushing with embarrassment. "I thought you were somebody I knew." Hermes and Rhona had spun around in their seats, gripping the backs of their chairs, staring at the elf. They had never met Dobby, either of them, but his antics were notorious.

"But I knows Dobby too, miss," the house-elf squeaked. She shielded her face, as if afraid of the brilliant golden light illuminating the stadium, wincing. "My name is Winky, miss—and you, miss—" her dark eyes, so different from Dobby's luminous ones, flickered to the scar very visible because Harriet had pushed her hair back with her headband. "_You_ is _surely_ Harriet Potter, miss."

"That's me," Harriet smiled.

"But Dobby talks of you _all the time_, miss," Winky the house-elf squeaked, looking slightly awestruck where her hands didn't cover her face. Harriet grinned; she hadn't heard from Dobby in a while, since the last time she'd seen him—the morning when she had played a key part in getting Mr Malfoy to set him free without realising he'd done so, until it was too late.

"How's he been? I haven't seen him in ages," Harriet smiled. "How's freedom treating him?"

"Ah, miss," Winky said sorrowfully, shaking her head, "ah, miss, meaning no disrespect, miss, but I is not sure you is doing Dobby a favour, miss, when you is setting him free."

"Why?" Harriet gaped. "He _hated_ working for the Malfoys. They were atrocious to him!"

"Freedom is going to Dobby's head, miss," Winky said, shaking her head again. "He is getting ideas above his station, miss—he wants paying for his servitude, miss, and cannot find another position because of it," she whispered.

"Why shouldn't he? The amount of work you all do," Harriet said, shrugging. Winky's large eyes grew even more enormous, as if in horror.

"A house-elf does not getting paid, miss," Winky whispered. "He is getting into all sorts of high jinks, miss, such things as is unbecoming of a house-elf, miss. The next thing I hear, I says to him, Dobby will be up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, like some common hobgoblin."

"But he's alright, isn't he?" Harriet asked worriedly. "He's not in trouble, is he?"

"No, miss, no," Winky said, shaking her head. "But, as I is saying to Dobby, miss, it is only a matter of time, miss. House-elves is supposed to be good and hard-working and _do as they're told_, miss, they is not having money for keeping their master's secrets and their silence. House-elves does what they is told, Harriet Potter. I…I is not liking heights, Harriet Potter, but…my master sends me to the Top Box, miss, and Winky comes."

"Shoddy master you've got, if he sent you up here knowing you don't like heights," Harriet frowned, not liking whoever it was who was making Winky's eyes go glassy with terror like that.

"Master—Master wants me to save him a seat, Harriet Potter," Winky whimpered, casting the edge of the Box a wary look. "Winky is wishing she is back in master's tent, Harriet Potter, but Winky does what she is asked. Winky…Winky is a good house-elf, miss."

Jaws slack, Hermes and Rhona turned to Harriet as she settled back in her seat.

"_That's_ a house-elf!" Rhona shook her head. "Bizarre things!"

"Dobby was even stranger, I assure you," Harriet breathed, and Rhona smirked amusedly. Hermes handed them the programmes he'd bought them, and sat skimming through his. Harriet examined hers, sharing it with Cedric; it was bound with purple velvet and had gold tassels, and the pages were of heavy parchment, embossed with gold, with swirling calligraphy in dark purple ink.

"'A display from the team mascots will precede the match'," Hermes read, looking mildly impressed. "I wonder what the English team mascot is."

"Acromantula, probably," Harriet laughed, and saw Rhona shudder. Hermes had managed to opt out of that particular adventure in the Forbidden Forest by getting himself Petrified.

"That's always worth watching," Mr Weasley said, polishing his glasses for the fourth time since sitting down, he was that excited. "National teams always bring creatures native to their lands, you know, to put on a bit of a show."

* * *

Considering this was the Top Box Mr Weasley had managed to get tickets into, over the next half-hour the seats all around them continued to fill with people who were obviously very important wizards; Mr Weasley was constantly shaking hands, beaming, and Percy jumped out of his seat so often that it looked as if he was trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge entered the Top Box, Percy embarrassed himself by shattering his glasses after giving a ridiculously low bow, and continued to glower at Harriet as the Minister welcomed her like a favourite niece, asked how her summer had been so far, and introduced him to the wizards either side of him.

"Harriet Potter, you know," he told the Bulgarian Minister for Magic, who was wearing sumptuous robes of black velvet trimmed with gold, and didn't seem to speak a word of English, though when she caught his eye, Harriet was sure he'd given her a wink. "_Harriet Potter_…oh, come now, you know who _she_ is, don't you? The girl who survived You-Know-Who…you _do_ know who she is…"

The Bulgarian wizard, suddenly spotting Harriet's very-visible-this-evening scar, started babbling away excitedly, and Mr Fudge shook his head wearily. "I'm no great shakes at languages, Harriet. I need Barty Crouch here—ah, I see his house-elf is saving him a seat—good thing, too, these Bulgarian blighters keep trying to cadge all the best seats! Ah, and here's Lucius!"

Harriet was vaguely aware, in her peripheral vision, of Rhona and Hermes whirling around in their seats. The Malfoy family—Lucius Malfoy, his pale and annoying son Draco, and presumably Draco's mother, a very fair woman who might have been extremely pretty if she hadn't had her nose in the air.

Harriet hadn't begun as Draco's enemy. The first day Harriet ever met him had been at _Madam_ _Malkin's_ in Diagon Alley—they were both stood on stools next to each other in the fitting area—and Draco had told her a little of the Houses at Hogwarts, remarking that, "You had _better_ be in Slytherin—the colours go with your eyes. Silver and emerald-green." Harriet had mentioned that until Hagrid had shown up hours before (he had arrived with ice-creams at that point, and stood grinning outside the door of the shop) she hadn't known everything she could do was because she was a witch, and that because her parents were dead she had been raised by people Hagrid (whom Draco had sneered at, at first, before seeing how much Harriet liked him) called Muggles.

It was only on the Hogwarts Express on the first of September later that summer that their relationship, which perhaps might have had a lot of potential (as the Sorting Hat told her later that evening), turned sour; he had picked on Rhona for wearing hand-me-down robes, and Harriet had stuck up for her first ever real friend.

The Malfoys sauntered over to the Minister; Lucius Malfoy shook hands with Fudge and introduced his wife Narcissa. Draco flicked his eyes over Harriet, said, "Hello," happily as if he was greeting a stranger—then did a double-take, staring slack-jawed at her for a split-second, his widened eyes roving over her face, then he blinked back his shock, frowned and demanded, "Where are your glasses?"

"I wear contact lenses now," Harriet said, smirking luxuriously when his pale eyes flickered with confusion. "They're," she glanced at Draco's parents and gave a very tart smile, "a _Muggle_ creation. They're like these tiny little discs made of jelly or something, that go straight on your eyes, so you don't have to wear frames." Draco didn't remark on her being the scum of the earth for using Muggle things; he just frowned at her, his eyes never leaving her face.

"You look…_different_," he said contemptuously, still frowning deeply, and his parents led him to their seats.

"Well, that was…" Harriet sank back into her seat, shaking her head, thrown off by Malfoy's odd behaviour. _Not even one insult_.

"He likes the look of you," Cedric whispered in her ear. Harriet shivered, glanced over his shoulder at Draco, sitting like a rose between two thorns between his parents, and beat Cedric with her programme. He just laughed, fending her off, and Harriet sat back in her chair, pouting in indignation at the accusation. Malfoy like the look of _her_? How insulting! She finished the last frame of film in her camera, tucked it into a little plastic canister, and Hermes made sure she had put the new roll of film in correctly, ready for the beginning of the match.

* * *

**A.N.**: You know we've all experienced having crushes on people that lead us to hitting them with things, or jabbing them in the sides because you know that's where they're ticklish most…I miss _my_ Charlie, a boy _I_ had a crush on!

* * *


	10. The Quidditch World Cup

**A.N.**: The Quidditch World Cup! Harriet's and Rhona's reactions to the Veela, being girls and watching all the guys around them!

* * *

**The Quidditch World Cup**

* * *

"Everyone ready?" Ludo Bagman roared excitedly, bounding into the Top Box, still wearing his Wimbourne Wasps robes. "Minister—ready to go?"

"Ready when you are, Ludo," Fudge said comfortably, smiling softly. Harriet watched Mr Bagman as he drew his wand, pointed it at his own throat, and said, "_Sonorus_." His voice, when he next spoke, boomed and echoed into every corner of the stands over the roar of the spectators. "Ladies and gentlemen…welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second _QUIDDITCH_ _WORLD CUP_!" Screams that were almost ear-splitting erupted; thousands of flags were waved, and Harriet noticed the chalkboard wipe itself clean of its last advertisement (_Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans—a Risk with Every Mouthful!_) and the giant's hand quickly wrote: BULGARIA: ZERO, IRELAND: ZERO.

"And now, without further embellishment, allow me to introduce the Bulgarian Team Mascots!" The Bulgarian side, a solid mass of scarlet-red, roared.

"I wonder what they've brought," Mr Weasley said, leaning forward. "Aah," he said, suddenly whipping his glasses off and polishing them for the fifth time in half an hour. "_Veela_!"

"What are Veela?" Harriet and Rhona both asked, but a second later Harriet knew. And knew she disliked Veela with every fibre of her being.

Veela were women—only they weren't _real_, weren't _natural_. Nothing on this good green earth could make their skin shimmer like moonlight, their silvery hair fan out in a breeze that didn't exist. Then the music started.

An unnatural hush swept over the stadium—over the _male_ spectators inside the stadium. Harriet and Rhona exchanged a look; Harriet glanced behind her, noticed Mrs Malfoy rolling her eyes slightly and putting her hands over her son's ears; he jumped, glancing around and blinking. Harriet turned to Hermes, whose jaw had fallen slack, and whose eyes had glazed over, trained unblinkingly, _lovingly_ on the Veela as they danced. Cedric had stood up, one foot resting on the side of the Box, looking like he was about to spring.

"What _are you doing_?" Harriet gaped, then proceeded to beat Cedric with her programme again to snap him out of it—the trance, whatever the Veela had done to him. Rhona, seeing the effects of the Veela on Hermes and her brothers, borrowed Harriet's camera for one photograph, before dealing Hermes a slap and Charlie a sharp blow to the bulging biceps he was flexing. The music stopped, and deep, loud shouts of anger filled the space where the music had been. Harriet frowned, glancing around the Top Box, which was filled mostly by men; all of them were looking angry and dejected and desperate. Desperate for those stupid Veela to start dancing again.

"I don't know what all the fuss is about," Harriet shook her head, glaring at the Veela. They may be beautiful, but it wasn't _real_ beauty. They were magical _creatures_. If there was anything she'd learned about magic, it was that nothing was ever quite what it seemed; very rarely did she get what she saw, and only that.

"And now," Mr Bagman roared, "kindly put your wands in the air…for the Irish National Team Mascots." Harriet was very glad of her camera, when next moment, what seemed to be an enormous green and gold comet came zooming into the stadium; a rainbow arched from the two smaller comets after it split, and when the rainbow and the two balls of light merged into one enormous shamrock and started doing a lap over the spectators, with golden rain falling from it, Harriet was ready with her camera to catch the Weasleys and Hermes grinning, catching great heavy gold coins that came raining down, and noticed that the shamrock was actually made of thousands of tiny bearded men with red waistcoats and carrying miniature lanterns of gold or green.

"Leprechauns!" Mr Weasley yelled, over the applause of the crowd that outdid the applause for the Veela, simply because the female spectators loved the gold too.

"There!" Rhona shouted, grinning, and smacking a fistful of gold coins into Harriet's free hand. "For the Omnioculars! Now you've got to buy me presents! Ha!"

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome—the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you Dimitrov," a tiny figure clad in scarlet, riding a broomstick, zoomed out of the Bulgarian end of the pitch, "—Ivanova—Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand_—Krum_!"

"That's _her, _that's _her!_" Rhona gasped, her jaw slack as she stared through her Omnioculars. Harriet quickly set her own before her eyes, twiddling the knobs.

Viktoria Krum was thin, dark-haired, and pale-skinned, with heavily-lidded eyes and quite a strong jaw. Like Hermes had mentioned earlier, she looked quite miserable, scowling as she zoomed across the pitch. It was difficult to believe she was barely eighteen. "And now, please greet the Irish National Quidditch Team!"

Enormous applause erupted; this was Great Britain's only chance of a victory, after all, and the hundred-thousand witches and wizards had probably all been betting on the odds, as Mr Bagman, Mr Weasley, and the twins had.

"Presenting—Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Moran! Quigley! Aaaaaaand _Lynch_." Another seven blurs, these ones green, came zooming onto the pitch: Harriet fiddled with a few knobs on her Omnioculars and stuck her tongue out, focusing. She slowed the players down just enough so that she could read the flashing gold lettering on their broomsticks, _Firebolt_, and their names, embroidered in silver, on the backs of their shamrock-green robes.

"And here, all the way from Egypt, our esteemed referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!" A moustached wizard in robes of pure gold to match the stadium strode out onto the pitch, a silvery whistle protruding from the moustache that would have outstripped Uncle Vernon's.

* * *

It began quickly, and the pace of the match grew faster. It was Quidditch as Harriet had never seen it, never even _knew_ it could be played like. Mr Bagman could barely keep up with his commentary of the Chasers; he barely mentioned their names before the Quaffle changed hands again.

Harriet spun the 'slow' dial and pressed the play-by-play button the sales-wizard had pointed out: glittering purple lettering flashed across the bottom of the lenses as Harriet watched, the noise of the spectators enveloping her. '_Hawkshead Attacking Formation_,' she read, and watch the three Irish Chasers zoom closer together—Troy in the middle, ahead of Mullet and Moran. '_Porskoff Ploy_' flashed next, as Troy made to dart upwards, distracting the Bulgarian Chaser Ivanova, dropping the Quaffle down to Moran. Moran ducked a Bludger sent by Volkov, one of the Bulgarian Beaters, dropping the Quaffle; Levski, soaring beneath, caught it.

"TROY SCORES!!!"

"What? Levski's got the Quaffle!" Harriet shouted.

"Harriet! If you're not going to watch at normal-speed, you're going to miss things!" Cedric said, and Harriet, glancing over the top of her Omnioculars, saw him dancing in front of his seat, waving his arms in the air with Rhona and Hermes as Troy did a victory-lap. Harriet swore quietly to herself and twiddled the dials back to normal. The leprechauns had formed a great shamrock again, and, Harriet smirked, the Veela looked sulky.

Even Hermes didn't have to know much about Quidditch to know that the Irish Chasers were absolutely superlative. They worked as a seamless team, in a way that would take the Gryffindor team years of intense daily training to achieve. Their moves were the kinds of things Oliver Wood had always wanted them to learn, but Alicia, Katie and Angelina had never been coordinated enough to make it work like _this_.

* * *

Within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more. But there was never any second when there wasn't something going on; there were no pauses for reflection to retrieve a dropped Quaffle; the game became faster, and a lot more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov seemed to be the dirty version of the Weasley twins, forcing the Irish Chasers twice to abandon their best formations, to adapt their best moves; Ivanova broke through the Irish Chasers and dodged the Keeper, Ryan. The Bulgarian side of the stadium roared with approval and jubilation as Ivanova scored their first ten points of the match. Harriet and Rhona grabbed Hermes and muffled his ears when the Veela rose elegantly, hair fanning out, skin shimmering, and started to dance again. The Weasleys all plugged their ears. When the Veela stopped, Bulgaria had the Quaffle.

"Dimitrov—Levski—Dimitrov—Ivanova—Oh, I say!" Harriet was standing now, her eyes glued to the two Seekers, Lynch and Krum, two blurry streaks of colour plummeting so fast they looked as if they were sky-diving without parachutes.

"They're going to crash!" Hermes shouted, stricken. At the very last second, Viktoria Krum pulled out of the dive and spiralled off. Lynch collided painfully with the velvety-smooth pitch, to the groans of despair from the Irish supporters.

"She was feinting," Harriet heard Mr Weasley moan, and Charlie shook his head.

"Harriet—you coulda made that dive," Rhona grinned, eyes fixed on Krum through her Omnioculars. "You did, that first time you rode a broom, with the Remembrall." Harriet was grinning, spinning the speed dial again, and watched Krum and Lynch dive again, taking advantage of the time-out so Medi-Wizards could patch Lynch up.

"He'll be okay," she heard Charlie say to Hermes, who looked anxious. "He only got ploughed, which is what Krum was after, of course…" Harriet pressed the play-by-play button and read '_Wronski Feint—dangerous Seeker diversion_'. Somehow, Wood had never managed to set Harriet's imagination working with his descriptions of this particular move. He'd said it was highly effective at distracting the other Seeker's attention whilst using the time—as Harriet noticed Krum was doing, once she pressed the play-by-play button again and twiddled the speed dial back to normal—to scout out the Snitch. She noticed that Krum, circling high above the pitch, saw her glistening dark eyes flitting here and there, never still, searching for the Snitch without interference.

After fifteen more minutes, Harriet wasn't the only one on her feet, dancing with her hand in the air, the other clamping her Omnioculars in place over her eyes; Ireland had scored another ten goals, meaning the score was now 130-10, and the game had gotten far dirtier than Harriet would have believed to be allowed.

Whatever happened next occurred so quickly that Harriet didn't catch it. "Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing—excessive use of elbows!—Penalty to Ireland!" In retaliation for the leprechauns' taunts, the Veela got up and started dancing again; all of the Weasleys and Hermes, and even, Harriet noticed, Malfoy, put their fingers in their ears instinctively. Harriet focused on the match as it continued regardless of other action on the field; "_Look at the referee_!" Rhona gasped gleefully, and Harriet trained her Omnioculars on the shimmering gold robes of Mostafa.

"Somebody slap the referee!" Mr Bagman shouted laughingly, as Harriet watched Mostafa flexing his muscles and smoothing his thick moustache. Harriet laughed loudly, tugging Hermes' fingers out of his ears and pointing down; his face glowed with a broad grin, his eyes sparkling, and he joined in laughing with the rest of the stadium, laughing at thoroughly-embarrassed Mostafa, who was mouthing at the Veela, apparently attempting to throw them out of the stadium. "Unless I'm much mistaken, the referee is actually attempting to send the Bulgarian Team Mascots off the pitch!" Mr Bagman said. "Now _there's_ something we haven't seen before…oh, this could turn nasty…"

* * *

If Harriet had thought the last half-hour had been brutal, she had been shown up with what occurred next. Volkov and Vulchanov landed on either side of Mostafa, shouting and arguing furiously on behalf of their Mascots: two short blasts of Mostafa's whistle, and the Irish side roared with approval as Troy took the penalties.

The Beaters were behaving mercilessly, not caring whether club met Bludger or brain-matter: Dimitrov shot at Moran, nearly knocking her off her broom, as she had the Quaffle; another blast of Mostafa's whistle and the leprechauns had risen into the air in a very rude hand-gesture that Harriet felt sure they'd never make again if they ever met Mrs Weasley whilst doing it.

Then it wasn't so much a Quidditch game as a battle of the Bludgers high in the air; the pitch became a war-zone. In retaliation for the leprechauns, the Veela lost control: Harriet had been right in thinking that with the Veela, what they saw wasn't what they got. Their beautiful, serene faces elongated into ugly, cruel-beaked birds heads, their shoulders bursting with scaly wings; they threw handfuls of fire—

"And _that_, boys," Mr Weasley shouted over the tumult, "is why you never go for looks alone!"

"Lucky we don't have that problem!" Rhona shouted at Harriet, winking, and Harriet laughed loudly: Whilst Ministry wizards flooded onto the pitch to break up the Mascots' riot, Harriet turned back to the players; staring through her Omnioculars, she watched the Quaffle change hands with the speed of—well, she couldn't think of anything fast enough—

"Levski—Dimitrov—Moran—Troy—Mullet—Ivanova—Moran again—Moran—MORAN SCORES!!!!" The shrieks of the Veela outdid the screams of the Irish supporters; Ministry wizards were attempting to blast them away with their wands, to little effect; meanwhile, the game had recommenced without lapse.

Levski—Dimitrov—Irish Beater Quigley sent a Bludger as hard as possible towards Krum, who didn't duck in time. A howling groan echoed from the crowd as it hit her hard in the face; Krum's nose was definitely broken, blood flourishing all over her face and robes. Mostafa didn't blow his whistle, too concerned with his broomstick being on fire.

"She can't play like that!"

"Where's the ref?"

"Come on, Mostafa, blow your bloody whistle—look at her!"

"_Look_ _at_ _Lynch_!!" Harriet screamed, dancing on the spot as she followed Aidan Lynch, who had suddenly gone into a very sharp dive. This time, Harriet knew, this was no Wronski Feint.

"He's seen the Snitch! Look at him! Look!"

Only half the spectators seemed to have realised what was going on—the Irish side rose in a great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on, but Krum was catching up. They were both hurtling towards the ground now.

"They're going to crash!"

"They're not!" Rhona yelled.

"Lynch is!!!" Cedric shouted.

With a sickening, echoing noise, Lynch collided with the ground with earth-shattering force, trampled instantly by a hoard of crazed Veela.

"Where's the Snitch?" Charlie bellowed.

"She's got it—Krum's got it!" Harriet danced, screaming. She lowered her Omnioculars, staring, stunned. "It's all over!"

* * *

BULGARIA: ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY, IRELAND: ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY.

* * *

"IRELAND WIN!!!" Bagman roared, as everyone—well, the Irish supporters—rose to their feet, screaming at the top of their lungs, making so much noise Harriet had to cover her ears, feeling as if she had been stuck right in front of a jumbo-jet engine. "KRUM GETS THE SNITCH—BUT IRELAND WIN!!! Good lord, I don't think anyone was expecting that!"

"What did she think she was playing at?" Rhona grinned, dancing around with Hermes and Harriet. "She ended it when they were behind a hundred and sixty points! The numpty!"

"She wanted to end things _her_ way," Harriet shouted back, dancing around and yelling, applauding madly. "All we're gonna remember is that Ireland won, but _she_ caught the Snitch." Rhona shrugged, grinning from ear to ear, and Harriet applauded. Hermes leaned over the edge of the Box, down at Viktoria Krum, who had landed in the midst of the warring Veela and leprechauns.

"She was very brave—that's the sort of thing you'd've done, Harriet," Hermes said, grinning. "Oh, dear, she looks a bit of a mess, doesn't she?" Harriet focused her Omnioculars; Krum, surrounded by trained Medi-Wizards, was refusing treatment, looking very surly, surrounded by her dejected-looking team-mates. The Irish National Team was dancing gleefully in a shower of golden rain from their mascots. The Veela were shrinking back into their beautiful, serene selves, looking miserable.

Harriet grinned from ear to ear, her cheeks hurting from it, and danced around, applauding. She glanced at Rhona and Hermes, and wondered if they thought she'd ever have a shot of playing for England. For the English National Team…perhaps she could take them to the World Cup Final, and win…maybe, in a few years…

"Vell, ve fought bravely," someone said gloomily, and Harriet glanced behind her: the Bulgarian Minister for Magic shook his head dejectedly and sighed.

"You can speak _English_?" Fudge demanded, looking half-outraged, half-exasperated. The Bulgarian Minister caught Harriet's eye, grinned, and winked.

"Vell, it vos very funny!" Harriet laughed loudly, and the Bulgarian Minister grinned at her, Fudge looked annoyed, as she took a photograph.

Harriet's eyes were suddenly dazzled by a very bright, ethereal light, and she had her camera in front of her face again as two panting wizards staggered under the weight of a vast golden cup, which they handed over to Cornelius Fudge, who still looked annoyed.

"Let's have a really _loud hand_ for the gallant losers—Bulgaria!!" Bagman shouted, and up the stairs, into the Top Box (Rhona was screaming at the top of her lungs, only outdone in volume by Charlie) came the Bulgarian National Team. Harriet got a prime opportunity to see the players up-close; each of them filed between the two rows of seats, shaking hands with their own Minister for Magic, and then Fudge; Harriet's camera flashed and she grinned; Rhona looked as if she was about to pass out when Viktoria Krum came slouching between the seats, close enough that they could feel the heat radiating from her, smell the copper of her blood still blossoming all over her robes. She looked absolutely horrendous, her nose broken, two black eyes flourishing purple, fuchsia and green around her eyes, her face still bloody.

When Krum's name was announced, the entire stadium, regardless of whether they were Irish or Bulgarian supporters, roared.

When the Irish team was called up, Aidan Lynch had to be supported by Moran and Connelly, looking decidedly cross-eyed and dazed. The last collision with the earth, and being trampled by crazed Veela, seemed to have taken it out of him. Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup up, and the air shattered with ear-splitting applause. Harriet flashed one last photograph and clapped, her hands already numb. The Irish team did another lap of honour, the Weasleys were all dancing and roaring their approval, and Mr Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and said "_Quietus_."

"They'll be talking about that one for years," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "Quite unexpected—Shame it couldn't have lasted…ah, yes…I owe you…how much?

Fred and George stood before him, grinning like Cheshire Cats, hands outstretched.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review!

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	11. The Dark Mark

**A.N.**: My opinion of the end of the match in the book was that it was pretty tame, so I've embellished it. I've also been toying with the idea of doing another HP fic in which it is set during the time of the Next Generation—only, Ginny had Draco Malfoy's child three months before his wife Astoria gave birth, both daughters. It's inspired by _One_ _Tree_ _Hill_ with Quidditch as the main component, and James Sirius Potter being the 'Peyton' of the scenario, with Hugo Weasley taking place of 'Haley'. Please let me know your thoughts on that. I kind of don't want to write it until I've absolutely finished _this_ fic!

* * *

**The Dark Mark**

* * *

Raucous singing, loud, tipsy laughter filled the air, echoing in the woods as they made their way out of the stadium, following the lantern-lit path. Harriet, on Charlie's shoulders again, sang the Irish national anthem loudly with Bill, Charlie, the Diggorys and Mr Weasley, who was waving his flag and kicking his heels as they made their way back to the tent. More than once, a Leprechaun only just missed colliding with her as they zoomed through the air, their tiny lanterns still lit, though no longer shedding gold.

The Irish tents being so close, they had a very difficult time imagining sleep any time soon—so Mr Weasley gave in and allowed them to join the festivities; beer was flowing freely, and a ramshackle band had been created with fiddles, and Harriet, Rhona, Hermes and Cedric, the twins, Bill and Charlie, all joined in dancing in front of the Finnigans' tent with Dean and Seamus. Harriet didn't know how long they danced, but she knew her feet were sore and Bill and Charlie had to stop the twins drinking too much.

After what must have been two hours, Mr Weasley and Mr Diggory came to reclaim them, and Mr Weasley agreed, after they had all got into their pyjamas (and Harriet had taken her contact-lenses out), that they could all have a last cup of hot-chocolate with the Diggorys before bed. Nobody felt like sleeping, anyway. Harriet was trembling with adrenaline, grinning from ear to ear, and throwing herself all over the tent as she and Rhona re-enacted their favourite moves, arguing with Cedric over which Hogwarts team would be able to have the stomach and discipline to pull off the routines—the twins wanted a show-down back at The Burrow as to which of them, out of Harriet and Cedric, could have pulled off the Wronski Feint.

It was only when Hermes spilled his hot-chocolate all over the floor, grinning but half-asleep, that Mr Weasley and Charlie's disagreement over cobbing ended, and Mr Diggory took Cedric back to their tent. Mr Weasley insisted they all get into bed. Still grinning, Harriet clambered into the top-bunk, after tucking her glasses in her overnight bag for safekeeping. Tucked under blankets, she felt extremely warm and cosy and still giddy, tiny lanterns of the leprechauns zooming over the canvas of the tent ceiling as she recalled her favourite moves, watched Krum pull off that spectacular dive, heard Rhona saying '_You coulda made that dive_,' and saw herself, on her _Firebolt_, dressed in magnificent white robes with _Potter_ emblazoned in crimson on the back, zooming into the golden stadium to tremendous applause, heard Mr Bagman shouting, "_I-give-you-POTTER_!!!"

* * *

Quite suddenly—she wasn't sure if she'd still been fantasising or whether her visions of flying like Krum had merged into actual dreams—Harriet was being shoved roughly. "Harriet! Rhona! Get up, quickly! This is urgent!"

"Come on Harriet," Charlie's voice said, and his voice was stricken as he tugged her out of her mound of blankets, wrapping something fluffy around her. Harriet dug her feet into the slippers she knew where at the foot of the bunkbed ladder, grabbed the bag she'd slung over the bunkbed post, and wasn't quite oriented enough to remember, as Charlie and Mr Weasley ushered them all hurriedly out of the tent, that she couldn't see anything.

"I need my glasses!" she shouted, upon realising she could barely make out the Weasleys' features ten feet away. She made to run back to the tent, but Charlie grabbed the back of the dressing-gown he had wrapped around her.

"There isn't time—No, listen," Harriet realised something was terribly wrong; the sounds of the campsite had changed. There was no more singing; there were screams, the sounds of people running, crying. "You lot, get into the woods, and _stick together_. Dad'll come and get you when it's safe." She heard Mrs Finnigan shouting for Seamus and Dean to "stick with the Weasleys".

"What's going on?" Harriet asked, but she saw Charlie running to catch up with three more redheads and a sandy-blonde, tugging on a jumper over his bare chest, wand out. Squinting, Harriet saw, by the light of a few still-lit fires, that there was a great mass of _something_, something that was emitting flashes of light, bangs like ignited gunpowder, jeers, loud drunken laughter and yells.

A strong burst of green light was enough that even Harriet, even without her glasses, could see what was going on. A group of wizards, in dark cloaks, their faces masked, was marching slowly across the field, paying little heed to the tents in their way as they trampled them. High above the group, floating in mid-air, were four figures struggling against being contorted into grotesque figures. Two of the figures were very small. As they passed over a burning tent, the four floating people were illuminated, and Harriet recognised the man—it was Mr Roberts…the only Muggle for miles. The others were a woman and two small children. Mrs Roberts was flipped upside-down, her nightdress falling to reveal voluminous knickers: the smallest Muggle child was spun around like a spinning-top, his head flopping limply from side to side. Harriet gasped, horror-struck. She felt ill just watching.

"I have the sudden urge to start burning crosses," Harriet said, staring at the Wizarding equivalent of the Ku Klux Klan. She stared, mortified, at the spinning-top child.

"That's disgusting!" she heard someone breathe—and noticed Cedric running over to them from his dad's tent, tugging on a jumper, his wand out. Hermes followed him from the mouth of their tent, tugging the zipper of his jacket closed, and took their hands.

"C'mon," Fred said, jerking his head at the woods, and they all hurried towards the trees. Harriet couldn't help cringing, feeling ill, every time a bang or scream echoed.

"What do they think they're doing?" she whispered. She'd never seen _anyone_ treat anybody else like that, using magic.

"Dunno," Dean panted; they all broke into a run and entered the relative safety of the trees.

* * *

Without her glasses, everything was a lot more grotesque. Dark shapes blundered through the impenetrable darkness of the woods, jostling them; children cried and terrified shouts echoed with panicked voices. Rhona, her hand clamped around Harriet's so they didn't break ranks and get separated, let out a yelp and both of them were pitched forward to bite the dirt.

"What's happened—where are you? Oh—so stupid! _Lumos_!" A narrow beam of dazzling light blinded her, illuminating Rhona clutching her ankle, her teeth gritted. Harriet clambered off the ground and helped Hermes hoist Rhona off the floor.

"Sorry, Harriet—I tripped over a root," Rhona moaned, testing her weight on her ankle.

"Well, with feet that size, it'd be hard not to," said a familiar, drawling voice, and Harriet whirled around, glowering at Draco Malfoy. He looked quite at his ease, leaning back against a tree-trunk, still in his robes. He appeared to be watching the commotion in the campsite through a gap in the trees. Rhona told Malfoy to do something that they all knew she'd never dare say in front of her mother, tugging her wand out; Malfoy eyed it warily; Rhona's Bat-Bogey Hexes were notorious.

"Language, Weaslette," Malfoy drawled boredly, his pale eyes glittering maliciously. "Hadn't you better be going—don't want _him_ spotted, would you?" A flash of green light followed a bomb-blast and illuminated the first few rungs of trees.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Hermes growled threateningly.

"Granger, they're after _Muggles_," Malfoy sneered.

"Hermes is ten times the wizard _you'll _ever be," Harriet snarled. She didn't like not being able to see, not knowing what was going on. She was scared and angry.

"Have it your own way," Malfoy shrugged. "Good thing _your_ mudblood mother isn't here—wouldn't want _her_ showing off her knickers, would you. Oh…that's right…she was _dead_ before she could wipe the drool from your chin."

_CRUNCH_. She put all of what little weight she had into her fist and connected it with Malfoy's nose, falling on him when he crumpled with a yell. She was vaguely aware of both Malfoy and Hermes yelling, Rhona's shrieks, Cedric trying to haul her off Malfoy, Malfoy's taunt ringing in her ears, hands on her to try and restrain her and haul her off, but she just kept hitting Malfoy, growling through gritted teeth. "Don't you _DARE_ talk about _MY MOTHER LIK E THAT_! MY MOTHER WAS A WITCH—SHE WAS A BETTER WOMAN THAN _YOUR MOTHER_ EVER WILL BE!! SHE GAVE HER LIFE TO SAVE ME—SHE SHOWED ME MORE LOVE IN ONE NIGHT THAN YOU'VE EVER SEEN IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE!!! _THAT'S WHY YOU'RE SUCH AN UNCONSCIONABLE SHIT_!!!!"

"Get her off _me_!!" Malfoy screamed, obviously petrified of a five-foot-four munchkin beating the shit out of him. She heard Hermes shouting, Rhona swearing, and then—

"_Impedimenta_!" Cedric shouted, and Harriet was thrown bodily from Malfoy, into a heap on the floor several feet away.

Harriet scrambled to her feet, launching herself back at Malfoy, who had curled up in a shivering ball at the base of the tree he'd been leaning against, but she was caught by a strong arm around her waist and hauled a foot into the air, held against a thin, strong chest.

"Let me go! Put me down! _I'm going to kill him_!"

Harriet, writhing in the strong grip, growling, and her teeth gritted to get back to Malfoy, all her body flushed with heat from anger and adrenaline, was aware of Malfoy's whimpers growing smaller and Cedric moving quickly away, deeper into the trees.

"Where've the twins gone? Where are Dean and Seamus?" Hermes asked. Harriet was set down on the path gently, and she glanced up, seeing, in the light of Hermes' wand, that it was Cedric who'd stopped her pounding the life out of Malfoy. "Cedric, you didn't see where they went, did you?"

"Harriet, you really oughtn't to have hit Malfoy so many times," Hermes said disapprovingly, panting. "His parents will probably be really angry when they see him."

"I don't care. He deserved it," she said throatily, sniffing. Cedric lit his wand, and focused the beam on Harriet's hands. She heard his sharp intake of breath.

"Oh, Harriet," he gasped softly; her knuckles were bruised and bloody in places, where she'd mashed her hand into Malfoy's mouth. She heard Hermes and Rhona's gasps too, when they saw.

"Well…the twins and Seamus and Dean can't have got that far ahead of us," Rhona said, sounding a little bit off, perhaps because of the sight of Harriet's bloody knuckles. Harriet was still trembling, but it had more to do with her hands; her stomach always went funny when she was in pain. Rhona lit her wand, like Hermes and Cedric, and, sniffing, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, Harriet undid the clasp on her bag and searched for her wand, shivering every time the faux suede lining caught on her knuckles. She felt around for her wand; there were the canisters of film she needed to develop, her Omnioculars, her programme, her money-bag…but, "My wand's gone."

"What?" All three of them—Cedric, Hermes and Rhona—blurted, gasping softly. They trained their wand-light on her bag, and Harriet searched through it again. It wasn't something that was easy to overlook, but…

"It's not here," she whispered, horror-struck. She had _never_ lost her wand, _never_. She had never gone anywhere in the magical world without it—even the Muggle one, tucked up her sleeve, just in case. Added with the loss of her glasses, and therefore her vision, she felt completely and utterly exposed.

"I'll go check back by where you were fighting," Cedric said quietly. "Maybe it fell out then." They heard snapping twigs, and the light from Cedric's wand grew fainter; Hermes and Rhona focused their beams on the floor around Harriet, just in case her wand had fallen out of her bag whilst she was searching it.

"Perhaps it's back at the tent," Hermes suggested. "Or maybe it fell out when we were running."

"I kept it fastened shut," Harriet said, going through her bag again in desperation. "I _can't_ have lost it!"

A rustling noise—from the side, not from behind them, where Cedric had gone—made them all jump. Winky the house-elf came struggling through a patch of bushes: She was moving strangely, as if a great weight was forcing her back, weighing her down so she couldn't move easily.

"There is bad wizards about!" she squeaked, leaning forward almost to the ground to keep running. "People high, _high_ in the air! Winky is getting out of the way!"

"Why's she running like that?" Rhona asked bemusedly, as Winky disappeared again.

"Maybe she didn't ask permission to run," Harriet shrugged. "Dobby used to have a real problem saying anything he wasn't supposed to. Maybe Crouch forbade her leaving the tent when he went off to help with the Robertses."

"I looked," Cedric panted, jogging back into view, his wand still aglow. "There's no sign of a wand anywhere—but Malfoy's gone."

"Slimy git's probably gone and run to mummy," Rhona said darkly. It was a mark of their friendship that Rhona took Harriet's side even if she perhaps didn't approve of Harriet duelling like a Muggle.

"You haven't heard the last from him, Harriet," Hermes said sharply, looking disapproving.

"Thanks for looking, Cedric," Harriet said glumly. She'd lost her wand.

"You know…" Hermes frowned at the spot where Winky had disappeared, and they started dawdling down the path. "House-elves get a very raw deal. It's slavery, that's what it is! Mr Crouch forced her into that Top Box when he _knew_ she was afraid of heights—and I'll bet you anything he's got her charmed or something to prevent her going against his wishes—so she couldn't even run away without asking permission. Why doesn't anybody _do_ anything about it?"

"Not everyone treats their house-elves that way," Cedric said quietly, as they walked on. Hermes whirled around to frown at Cedric.

"_You_ have house-elves," he accused, eyes narrowed.

"No. My mother's parents do," Cedric said quietly. "Poppy's really old, now, though. She stays with my grandmother as a companion; she can't do any house-work any more."

"And the elves seem happy, don't they," Rhona added, looking at Cedric and probably wondering, as Harriet was, just how rich his grandparents must be, and how ancient his mother's family was, to have a house-elf. "You heard Winky in the Top Box—'House elves is not supposed to have fun.' That's what she likes, being told what to do…"

"It's people like you, Rhona," Hermes said scathingly, pushing a great swag of branches out of the way of the path, "who prop up rotten and unjust systems, just because they're too lazy to—"

"Oi! _We _don't have a house-elf, Hermes," Rhona said indignantly. "Mum'd never let them do anything, anyway, even if we—" _BANG_.

The forest was illuminated once more.

"Come on—let's hurry up," Rhona said, glancing at Hermes. Cedric took hold of Harriet's wrist, gently, and they started hurrying along the path. Harriet couldn't help think that of all of them, Hermes probably _was_ in the most danger. Whilst Harriet was a half-blood, Rhona a pureblood, and Cedric probably half- or pureblood, Hermes was the only Muggle-born among them. Harriet, bowing to the inevitable, stopped searching her bag as they walked, afraid of losing anything else, and felt comforted because she was surrounded by three armed wizards, one of them several years older and probably a much more capable duellist.

"Oh—no, let's go a different way," Rhona scoffed, tugging on the back of Hermes' robes as they reached a glowing clearing, in which three beautiful Veela stood preening themselves, surrounded by a veritable crowd of young wizards. Harriet had to smack Cedric round the back of the head before they made their way into the heart of the wood.

Everything was a lot quieter here, darker, scarier. "We could probably just wait it out here," Harriet said, shivering with cold and nerves. She didn't like not being able to see everything properly, and she felt very vulnerable without her wand.

There was another rustle in the trees, and Ludo Bagman emerged. Even in the light of the three wands, Harriet stared at the change that had come over him—it wasn't a good one. He looked drawn, almost haggard, and strained.

"Who's that?" he squinted in the light; they lowered their beams. "What are you doing in here, all alone?"

"Er—well, there's a riot going on," Rhona said awkwardly, and Harriet knew she wasn't the only one who thought he should've known that already.

"What?"

"On the campsite. A load of people have got hold of a family of Muggles," Rhona elaborated. "My dad's gone to try and sort it out."

"Your dad? Oh, Arthur—," Bagman nodded. "Clearing up a riot?" He swore loudly, when a bang echoed slightly quieter than any others beforehand. "Damn them!" He Disapparated without another word.

"Bit behind, isn't he?" Hermes said, with a bite of disapproval.

"Come on," Rhona said quietly, leading the way into a little clearing just off the path, which was bathed with moonlight where the forest canopy hadn't closed in.

"I reckon Percy might be right about Bagman—he's not exactly very organised, is he," Hermes said quietly, as they all sat down at the base of a tree in the clearing. "I can't imagine he gets much work done."

"Well, he was a great Beater," Rhona shrugged. "The Wimbourne Wasps won the league three times in a row when he played for them."

"Hermes is right," Cedric said quietly, and there was a soft crackling noise and Cedric had conjured a ball of bluebell-coloured flames, that didn't singe the grass when he directed it to the floor between them. "My dad says the Department of Magical Games and Sports is always picking up the slack for what Mr Bagman _should_ be doing. He gets things done, but only if he's interested in them." Harriet, staring at the flames, which were exuding a lovely warmth, sighed softly, thinking.

"Do you reckon Malfoy's parents are the ones in those masks?" she said quietly, glancing at Rhona and Hermes.

"Probably," Rhona said without a second thought, tugging her figurine of Viktoria Krum out of the pocket of her jacket. Harriet, alone of the group, was in a dressing-gown; Cedric had pulled a jumper on, but his legs were bare. She noticed for the first time that, "Cedric, are your boxers glowing in the dark?"

In the firelight, laughing, Harriet saw that Cedric gave her a very sheepish grin, his eyes glittering. Rhona and Hermes both laughed, and Cedric stood to show the pattern of luminous green dragons actually flying around on the black fabric of his boxer-shorts. They were enough to lift everyone's moods, but Hermes appeared to be stuck on what was going on in the campsite.

"I hope those Muggles are alright," he said, biting his lip in consternation.

"They will be," Rhona said, with conviction. "The Ministry workers will get them down, no sweat."

"How thick do you have to be, though, to pull something like that when this place is swarming with Ministry workers?" Hermes frowned.

"Maybe they've been drinking," Cedric offered, frowning. "They wouldn't be the only ones, mind."

"Yes, but—"

Hermes stopped abruptly, glancing over his shoulder. Harriet stood and looked round, too. Cedric stood and inconspicuously doused the fire, standing slightly in front of her; it sounded as if someone was staggering through the trees just a few metres away from them. Shivers went up and down Harriet's spine and the fine hairs at the back of her neck prickled, feeling eyes on her. Cedric shivered slightly, too, perhaps feeling the eeriness of it too.

"Hello?" Harriet called softly, surprised that her voice didn't tremble. The footsteps had come to an abrupt halt. It was too dark to see very far, even with the lights of the three wands, but even though none of them could see, they all sensed _something_ standing in the impenetrable darkness, just beyond their range of vision.

Then, all four of them jumped, as the wood echoed with, not a terrified squeak or a tremulous call, but a clear, strong, deep shout, something that sounded like a spell: "_MORSMORDRE_!"

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**A.N.**: I had fun writing the bit about Draco Malfoy and Harriet. I wanted to make Harriet a little more feisty and kind of unpredictable with her reactions to things. After all, Harry was extremely temperamental and emotionally unstable in book five! And Harriet's a girl!

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	12. Guilty Until Proven Guilty

**A.N.**: Wow this is a long chapter! Only just realised it, looking back! I guess this chapter really sparks the birth of S.P.E.W. Hermes is a bit of a tree-hugger!

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**Guilty Until Proven Guilty**

* * *

The forest was illuminated then, with a great, glittering green _something_, which erupted from the patch of darkness to soar high into the air.

"Holy—!!"

"What the—?"

It was a colossal skull, composed of glittering emerald stars, a serpent slithering from its open mouth like some horrifying tongue. Etched against the black of the sky, it looked like some horrendous new constellation.

Screams erupted throughout the woods, petrified, panic-stricken; Harriet didn't understand why, but the sudden appearance of the skull seemed to be the reasoning behind them. The skull illuminated the entire wood with an eerie green glow. She scanned through the trees for the person who'd conjured it, but saw nothing.

"Come on, Harriet," Cedric gasped softly, and Harriet saw his face was pale, clearly panicked, his eyes wide as he stared in horror up at the skull. He tugged on her hand. She stumbled after him, catching sight of Hermes' startled face as he dragged Rhona backwards away from the place the skull had been conjured from.

"What's going on?" Harriet blurted, staggering after Cedric, her hand screaming in protest as Cedric clutched it, pulling her after him.

"It's the Dark Mark, Harriet—come _on_," Cedric said, and there was a hint of terror in his voice; his lips were white. He hoisted her off the floor by her waist, and started running across the clearing.

"The _what?_"

"You-Know-Who's sign," Cedric whispered.

"What—?" There was a series of small _pops_, announcing the appearance of some twenty-odd wizards, all of whom were armed, their wands pointed at her, Cedric, Rhona and Hermes, and instinctively Harriet yelled, "Get down!" Cedric dropped to the floor, crouching over her, as the twenty-odd wizards roared, as one, "_STUPEFY_." The clearing was illuminated with jets of fiery red light, which criss-crossed each other, ricocheted off tree-trunks, sped into the darkness…

"STOP!" It was Mr Weasley. "STOP! _That's_ _my_ _daughter_!" The high wind blew itself out, the spells had stopped, and Cedric unfolded out of his protective crouch. Mr Weasley staggered forwards, white-faced and terrified.

"Rhona—Harriet—" his voice was very shaky, "Hermes—_Cedric_? Are you alright?"

"Yeah!" Rhona squawked indignantly, hauling herself off the floor. "No thanks to you! Why'd you go and attack us for?"

"Out of the way, Arthur," a curt, cold voice said, and Mr Crouch bustled past Mr Weasley, his face taut with rage. "Which of you did it—which of you conjured the Dark Mark?"

"The what?"

"Don't play games with me!" Mr Crouch shouted.

"We didn't do that!" Harriet said, pointing up, glaring at Mr Crouch for yelling at Rhona. "We didn't do _anything_."

"Do not lie, Miss—" His wand was pointing directly at Rhona's heart. He squinted at Harriet.

"_Potter_," she snarled. How could they think _she_, of all people, would ever conjure Voldemort's sign? "We didn't do anything."

"You have been discovered at the scene of the crime!"

"Barty," whispered a witch in a long dressing-gown. "They're just kids, Barty, they'd never have been able to—"

"Where did the Mark come from?" Mr Weasley asked quickly, and all four of them pointed behind them beside the tree where they had sat.

"There was someone behind the trees…they shouted words—an incantation," Hermes said, sounding shaky.

"Oh, stood over there, did they?" said Mr Crouch, in a tone that showed quite plainly he didn't believe a word they were saying. "Said 'an incantation', did they? You seem very well informed about how that Mark is summoned, sir—"

"Well Hermes knows _everything_!" Rhona shouted. "And it wasn't us—it was a _man_, they had a really _deep_ voice." None of the other Ministry wizards seemed to think it at all credible to assume Harriet, Rhona, Hermes or Cedric could have conjured the Mark. They had all turned their wands to the place they'd pointed out.

"They'll have Disapparated," said the witch in the dressing-gown.

"I don't think so," mused a wizard with a scrubby brown beard.

"Dad?" Cedric glanced up, as Mr Diggory emerged from the darkness behind Mr Weasley.

"You alright, Ced?" Mr Diggory asked, his face a mask of concern for an instant before Cedric nodded, and he relaxed somewhat and turned back to his colleagues. "Our Stunners went right through those trees—there's a good chance we got 'em." Cedric clutched Harriet's hand hard as his father disappeared into the darkness, amidst hisses for "Amos, be careful."

"Yes!" They heard him shout. "There's someone here! Unconscious! It's…but…_blimey_!" Cedric loosened his hold on Harriet's hand when his father came back into view; he had been worried about him, Harriet realised. When Mr Diggory re-emerged, he was carrying a tiny, limp figure in his arms, a figure clad in a draped tea-towel.

"_Winky_," Harriet breathed, and Hermes and Rhona both stared at her, then at the elf.

"Bit embarrassing," Mr Diggory winced in sympathy for Mr Crouch, who had stormed into the woods where Winky had been found. "Barty Crouch's house-elf…I mean to say…"

"You don't think it was the house-elf who conjured the mark? The Dark Mark is a _wizard's _sign. It requires a wand," Mr Weasley said doubtfully.

"Yeah, and she _had_ a wand," Mr Diggory said.

"What?"

"Here, look!" Mr Diggory held up a wand and showed it to Mr Weasley. "She had it in her hand."

"But…she could'n't've conjured it," Mr Weasley said, his brow furrowing in a frown. "She'd need to know _how_."

"Well, she's still broken clause three of the Code of Wand-Use, whether or not she conjured it," Mr Diggory said heavily. "_No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand_."

Ludo Bagman appeared then, breathless and disoriented, his robes falling lopsided off his shoulders, his eager face shining with perspiration. He almost trampled Winky, asking whether they'd caught the perpetrator.

Winky was roused, her great brown eyes blinking bemusedly, the Dark Mark reflected twice in her enormous eyes. She glanced around at the wizards and burst into terrified sobs.

"As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured here a short while ago," Mr Diggory said, and Harriet realised why he was in charge of dealing with part-humans. Given her brief knowledge of the way part-humans were treated by the way people had turned on Professor Lupin in June, she wasn't surprised that Mr Diggory had the job, standing there stern and unforgiving, glowering down at poor petrified Winky. "An explanation, if you please!"

"I—I—I is not doing it, sir," Winky gasped, tears splashing down her great tomato of a nose. "I is not knowing how."

"You were caught red-handed, elf, with a wand in your possession," Mr Diggory barked, and Winky jumped and seemed to grow smaller. He brandished the wand in front of Winky, and the shimmering green light flashed on it. Harriet gasped.

"Hey! That's _mine_!" she gasped.

Everyone in the clearing turned to stare at her, even Cedric.

"Excuse me?"

"That's my wand!" Harriet said, staring at her wand. _How could it get here?_

"Is this a confession? You threw it away after conjuring the Mark?" Mr Diggory demanded.

"Amos! Think who you're talking to!" Mr Weasley said, very angrily, as Cedric also made a very angry noise. "Is _Harriet Potter _likely to conjure the Dark Mark?"

"Oh…of course not…carried away," Mr Diggory said, shamefacedly.

"I didn't throw it away, anyway!" Harriet said quietly. "I'd just been fighting with Malfoy when I realised it was missing."

"Malfoy?"

"Draco Malfoy," Hermes said quickly, glancing at Mr Crouch, whose eyes were bulging. "He's at school with us. He taunted her about his mother, you see, and she—well, look at her hands." Harriet tucked her hands behind her back, flushing.

"Harriet, were you missing your wand _before_ you met Draco Malfoy?" Mr Weasley asked carefully.

"I don't know," Harriet said. "It wasn't 'til we'd started walking towards here that I needed it, for light, you know. I hadn't needed to use it all evening. It was in my bag at the match…I might've lost it on the way back to the tent." She realised now that Winky had been sitting behind her at the match, and hoped for Winky's sake no one remembered or mentioned that.

"So," Mr Diggory said, his eyes going very hard, very un-Cedric-like, as he turned to Winky. "_So_, you found this wand, elf, and you picked it up and thought you'd have some fun with it, did you?"

"I is not doing magic with it, sir!" Winky squealed, tears shining down her tiny face. "I is…I is… I is just picking it up, sir! I is not making the Dark Mark, sir, I is not knowing how!"

"It wasn't _her_!" both Hermes and Cedric said emphatically, at the same time. Hermes flushed, seeing all the wizards turning to him and Cedric.

"Winky's got a tiny, squeaky little voice," he said, looking uncomfortable.

"Yeah—and the voice we heard shouting the incantation was a _lot_ deeper, male—_human_," Cedric added, frowning at her father in deep disapproval. Mr Diggory looked slightly annoyed that Cedric had spoken up in Winky's defence, but Cedric held his ground. "Wasn't it," he added to Harriet, who nodded fervently.

"Definitely a human voice," she agreed. "And anyway, where'd Winky've learned it?"

"Perhaps Amos is suggesting," Mr Crouch said, glancing at Harriet with an almost softened look in his eyes, which hardened when he turned to glower at Mr Diggory, "that I routinely teach my servants _to_ _conjure_ _the Dark Mark_."

"Mr Crouch…not…not at all…"

"You have now come very close to accusing the two people in this clearing who are _least likely_ to have had any hand in conjuring the Dark Mark—Harriet Potter, and myself," Mr Crouch fumed. "I suppose you are familiar with the girl's story, Amos?"

"Of course…everyone knows…" Mr Diggory mumbled, looking highly uncomfortable; he shot Harriet an apologetic glance. Cedric's arm was around her slim shoulders, a comforting weight.

"And I trust you remember the many proofs _I_ have given, over a lengthy career, that I despise and _detest_ the Dark Arts and those who practice them?" Mr Crouch shouted, looking quite frightening.

"Mr Crouch, I—I never suggested you—"

"If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!" Mr Crouch bellowed.

"Enough of this; it's madness to accuse each other," Mr Weasley said, stepping in to mediate. He turned to Winky, his expression and manner very kind, and spoke gently to her. "Winky, where exactly did you find Harriet's wand?" Winky twisted the hem of her tea-towel so violently that it frayed as Harriet watched, tears sliding down her face.

"I—I is finding it…finding it there, sir," she whispered piteously, "there…in the trees, sir…"

"There were over a hundred-thousand wizards in this wood tonight, Amos," Mr Weasley sighed heavily. "Any one of them could've stolen Harriet's wand and thrown it aside after conjuring the Mark. And it was Winky's misfortune that she found it and picked it up."

"How do we know it was Harriet's wand that conjured the Mark, anyway?" Hermes asked impatiently. "For all we know, the real culprit _could_ have Disapparated before you all got here. There was enough time for them to do that."

"Luckily," Mr Diggory said stonily, "there is a very simple charm exists that can show us the last spell a wand has performed." He pulled out his own wand, touched the tip to Harriet's, and roared, "_Prior Incantato!_"

Cedric's arm tightened around Harriet's shoulder as Rhona gasped, horrified. A huge serpent-tongued erupted from the point where the two wands were connected, but it wasn't green, as the one above them was; it was dark grey, a shadow of the incantation.

"Amos," Mr Crouch said curtly, as soon as Mr Diggory had deleted the shadow Mark. "I am fully aware that, in the usual state of things, you would wish to take Winky into your Department for questioning. However, I ask you to allow _me_ to deal with her." Winky's eyes grew, horrified, and she opened her mouth wordlessly, her eyes brimming with tears. "You may rest assured _she_ _will_ _be_ _punished_."

"M-m-master… M-m-master, p-p-_please_…"

"Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible," Mr Crouch said slowly, every word dripping like icicles. "I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she has disobeyed me. _This means clothes_."

Winky wailed, throwing herself down at Mr Crouch's feet. Harriet knew the only way to free a house-elf was to give it clothes. Harriet raised her hand to her mouth, her eyes burning, at the pitiful sight of Winky sobbing, clutching at her tea-towel.

"But she was _terrified_!" Hermes shouted angrily, unable to stop himself. "Winky's frightened of heights—and those thugs in the campsite were _levitating _people!"

"I have no need for a house-elf who disobeys me," Mr Crouch said coldly, glaring at Hermes. "I have no need for a servant who forgets what is due to her master."

"You mean your _slave_," Hermes snarled. There was a very nasty silence, in which Mr Crouch glowered at Hermes, and Hermes glowered back. Mr Weasley broke it.

"Well, I think I'll take my lot back to the tent," he said, glancing around. He exchanged a few quiet words with Mr Diggory, who handed him Harriet's wand. "Cedric, you're coming with us."

"Er—"

"Go on, son," Mr Diggory said quietly. "You'll go to The Burrow: your mother and I will have a lot to do."

"Alright," Cedric said quietly, and Harriet clenched her wand in her hand when Mr Diggory handed it back. Warmth spread from the holly wood through her fingertips, almost soothing her bruised and battered knuckles.

"Come on, you four," Mr Weasley said quietly. "Hermes." For Hermes didn't appear to want to leave sobbing Winky. Mr Weasley repeated himself, and Hermes, casting Mr Crouch one last deadly glare, followed them out of the clearing.

* * *

"What's going to happen to her?" Hermes asked sharply, as soon as he was sure they were out of earshot of the clearing. "Cedric? What does your father do to magical creatures that break the Code of Wand Use?" In the wand-light, Cedric didn't look like he wanted to answer.

"It can be anything," he said quietly. "But—since there's no solid evidence to suggest Winky performed the spell—I_ know_ she didn't perform it, but that's not to say that other people won't immediately assume she did it because she's not human," he added, seeing Hermes' expression. "Mr Crouch is a very important wizard at the Ministry—they won't want to cause any trouble by leaking it out that his elf was caught with the wand that conjured the Dark Mark."

"The chaos it would inspire," Mr Weasley said, shivering. "Cedric's right—Amos will probably let Barty Crouch do what he sees fit."

"But—He _knows_ Winky didn't do anything wrong," Hermes said desperately, stomping through the underbrush. "And he's still going to give her clothes—that means he's sacking her, doesn't it Harriet? Sacking her, only because she doesn't have a death-wish. And Mr Diggory treating her like that—this…_this_ isn't justice! This—this is _Nazi Germany_."

"Whoa," Harriet said, placing a hand on Hermes' shoulder. "Hermes, tone down the crazy!" Hermes gave her a very dirty look.

"That scene back there was mishandled from the very beginning, it didn't give a very good impression of the Ministry at all…but this isn't the time to start campaigning for elf-rights. We have to get back to the tent, come on…What happened to the others?"

"We dunno," Rhona said, as they all power-walked through the wood. "We lost 'em in the dark. Why was everyone so scared of that skull?"

"I'll explain later—come _on_," Mr Weasley said, hurrying them. Their path was blocked, however, by a gaggle of white-faced, scared witches and wizards, all clamouring to know what was going on—"What's going on in there?" "Who conjured it?" "Arthur—it wasn't—_him_?"

"Of _course_ it wasn't him," Mr Weasley said impatiently, and it was the first time Harriet had ever heard him being irritable. "We don't know _who_ conjured the Mark, it looked like they Disapparated before we arrived at the scene. Now excuse me, please, I need to get my children to bed."

* * *

The campsite was silent, only a few tents smouldering in the aftermath of the riot. Charlie's head was poking through the flap of the Weasleys' mercifully-untouched tent.

"Dad! Where are the others? The twins, Dean and Seamus got back here fine, but—"

"I've got them all!" Mr Weasley said wearily, ducking through the flap.

The tent was illuminated inside by the Moroccan lamps, the fire in the grate burning bright and hot: Bill sat at the kitchen table, holding a bloody bed-sheet to his profusely-bleeding arm; Percy's nose was bloody, and Charlie's t-shirt had a large rip in it. The skin of Mrs Finnigan's forearm looked like it was being knitted together, healing from a gash. Fred, George, Dean and Seamus were unharmed, though shaken.

"Did you get them?" everyone demanded. "The person who conjured the Mark?" Bill added. Cedric was the last to duck into the tent, and stood nervously, looking lost in thought, frowning.

"No, we didn't. But we found Barty Crouch's house-elf holding Harriet's wand," Mr Weasley said wearily, and he broke his anti-Muggle precautions no-magic rule and tapped the tea-kettle, passing a hand over his tired face. Harriet didn't look up as she heard the Weasleys' gasps of incredulity. She went straight to the bedroom, filtered through her backpack and recovered her glasses, slipping them on and let her shoulders relax. She could _see_. She had her wand back. Everything was going to be okay.

"Harriet, here, have a cup of tea," Mr Weasley said, when she re-entered the living-room. She raised her hands to take the teacup.

"Buggar me!" Charlie swore softly, his eyes widening as he caught sight of her hands. "What happened to you?"

"She clobbered Malfoy," Rhona remarked, sipping her tea. Seamus and Dean scoffed and snickered and grinned at her, winking. Dean looked particularly interested about the shade of purplish-fuchsia Harriet's knuckles had turned: Charlie looked appalled.

"Really?"

"Nice one," the twins grinned.

"Why?" Mr Weasley frowned disapprovingly. Charlie dragged Harriet to the kitchen, with a deep dish from the kitchen, filling it with water and something from his wand. He took Harriet's hands and gently lowered them into the dish. The stinging stopped, and before her eyes, the bruises started to lessen in the solution. Harriet lowered her head, flushing with shame. Looking back on it, she shouldn't have let Malfoy get to her like he had. Rhona told them all what had happened, what Malfoy had said. Mr Weasley thanked Cedric for having separated Harriet from Malfoy. But Mrs Finnigan wanted to go and "beat the hell out of his mother!"

With some assistance from Harriet, Rhona, Cedric and Hermes, Mr Weasley managed to tell them all what had happened in the woods. When they finished, Percy swelled indignantly.

"Well, Mr Crouch was quite right to get rid of an elf like that!" Percy said. "Running away when he'd given her express orders to stay where she was! Embarrassing him in front of the Ministry—"

"She only embarrassed Mr Crouch because he was too _stupid_ to realise that she might get _trampled_ if she stayed in his tent," Hermes snapped viciously. "It was his own fault she disobeyed him. How'd you like it if _I_ Stunned you and left you here for those lunatics to walk all over you, or set you alight?"

"Hermes, a wizard of Mr Crouch's standing in the Ministry cannot afford a house-elf who is going to run amok with a wand!" Percy snapped back.

"Mr Crouch is a human being same as all of us! He has no right to treat his inferiors the way he did—and Winky did _not_ run amok!" Hermes roared. "She picked the wand up off the ground."

"Can someone just explain what that stupid skull thing was?" Rhona asked impatiently.

"I've already _told_ you," Hermes snapped waspishly, before anybody else could open their mouths. Cedric was being very quiet, sitting in an armchair by the fire, biting his lip. "It's _You-Know-Who's_ sign! I read all about it in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_."

"It hasn't been seen," Mr Weasley added, looking slightly admiringly at Hermes, perhaps because he had read a book that was probably large as an encyclopaedia and three times as dull as powder, "for thirteen years." He glanced at Harriet, who was having her hands wrapped with bandages torn from Bill's bed-sheet, and smiled. "Not since Harriet defeated him…"

"Here's to you, Harriet!" Mrs Finnigan toasted, raising her teacup with a broad grin Seamus had inherited. Several people chuckled and copied her.

"It's no _wonder_ people panicked tonight. We're always worried that he'll return someday—it was like seeing him return, tonight."

"It wasn't," Harriet frowned. _She_ had seen Voldemort return twice, faced him, twice, and defeated him, twice. Mr Weasley shrugged, probably reading along the lines of what she was thinking. It was a lot more straining, terrifying, than a sign being shot into the sky when Voldemort attempted to return to power.

"You-Know-Who and his followers used to send the Dark Mark into the sky whenever they _killed_," Mr Weasley explained. "The _terror_ it inspired…you're too young to remember, or understand. Just imagine…you return home, and see the Dark Mark hovering over your home…It was everyone's worst fear, knowing what they'd find, if the Mark was over their house…The very worst fear…"

* * *

"What happened in the campsite?" Cedric asked quietly; he was refilling the teacups, frowning. "I didn't see much—Dad just woke me up when a Ministry wizard Apparated to our tent and said there were Death Eaters loose on this campsite, and asked for his help, and we all ran off into the forest." He refilled several teacups, and Harriet had to bite her lip, when she caught Rhona's eye, smiling at his luminous boxers.

"What are Death Eaters?" Harriet asked curiously.

"They're _You-Know-Who's_ supporters," Bill sighed heavily. "It's what they used to call themselves—we probably saw the remnants that were left, that escaped Azkaban after you," he smiled at Harriet, "after you defeated their master."

"We can't prove it was them, Bill," Mr Weasley sighed, looking older than Harriet had ever realised he was.

"Though it probably was," sighed Mrs Finnigan, shaking her head.

"Yeah," Rhona said vehemently. "Hang on—I bet it was! Dad, we met Draco Malfoy in the woods, calm as anything, _watching_ the Death Eaters. I'll bet you his dad told him to stay out of the way while he had his fun."

"We can't prove that, Rhona," Mr Weasley sighed, looking forlorn.

Bill, Charlie, Mrs Finnigan and Mr Weasley managed to fill everyone in on _their_ part of the adventure (Percy was still giving Hermes a death-glare for insulting his boss), and Bill sighed, heavily, checking his still-bleeding arm (Mrs Finnigan went over and started charming it together again), "—and whoever it was who conjured the Mark didn't do us any favours. As soon as they saw it, the Death Eaters Disapparated before we could unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses before they fell, though," he added, seeing Hermes' expression. "They're having their memories modified, but that's a _big_ thing they're going to have to make them forget."

"What were they doing, levitating Muggles like that, what was the _point_?" Cedric asked, looking ill at the thought of what the Weasleys had been describing. Mr Weasley laughed hollowly.

"There wasn't one, Cedric," he said heavily. "That's the Death Eaters' idea of _fun_. Half the Muggle murders back in the days of You-Know-Who were done for _fun_. I suppose some of them had a few drinks tonight, celebrating, and decided to remind us all that some of them are still powerful, still able to get away with what they did…Lovely reunion for them, I expect."

"Why'd they Disapparate when they saw the Mark?" Rhona asked, frowning. "I'd've thought they'd've rallied round it." Mr Weasley laughed humourlessly again.

"If they really _were _Death Eaters, Rhona," Bill said, "they've spent over a decade working very hard to convince everyone they weren't. They'd probably be even more frightened of him coming back than we would be, out of fear of what he'd do to them…he wouldn't be chuffed with their behaviour, would he?"

"S'pose not," Rhona shrugged. "Hey…Harriet…You don't reckon it was _Malfoy_?"

"Huh?"

"Malfoy. Maybe it was him who conjured the Mark," Rhona said, staring at Harriet.

"Oh, come off it!"

"No, I'm serious!" Rhona said. "You missed your wand right after you'd been fighting with him—it'd be _his_ sick idea of payback, using your wand to conjure the Dark Mark, to get you into trouble, after what you did to him."

"I don't think so, Rhona," Hermes frowned thoughtfully.

"Yeah…" Harriet frowned, sipping her tea. "He's not that _brave_. He'd only do something like that if he knew his daddy would be there to clean up the mess if he got into trouble. And since his mummy and daddy were probably around torturing children…"

"He'd definitely know how to conjure the Mark. It's probably one of those insane things his dad's passed on to him—pureblood supremacy and all that," Rhona said.

"Harriet's right—Draco's too cowardly to do something like this," Hermes said quietly. "When have we ever seen him do anything that wasn't to his benefit, or his father's? They'd have nothing to gain by putting the Mark up."

"Come on, all of you, it's late—and if either of your mothers hear of what's happened, there'll be hell to pay if you're not home at the crack of dawn," Mr Weasley said, flicking his wand so their teacups zoomed to the kitchen sink, washed themselves, and stacked themselves neatly in the cupboard. "Colleen, you and the boys are welcome to sleep here tonight. We'd all better get some sleep, and try and get an early portkey out of here in the morning."

Mrs Finnigan conjured cots for herself and the boys, and Bill gave up his bunk to Cedric, above Charlie, opposite the girls. Harriet climbed up onto her bunk, still wearing her pyjamas, dressing-gown, slippers and glasses, and stared up at the ceiling. No leprechaun lanterns flitted past now, no singing serenaded her into an easy sleep full of dreams of flying for England.

It had been only three or four nights ago—she couldn't even remember, her brain was so tired, sagging under the weight of everything that had happened tonight—when she had woken up with her scar hurting, after dreaming of Lord Voldemort, of dreaming of his plan to return to power. And, just hours ago, his sign had appeared for the first time in over a decade. His old supporters, supporters who had never known the terror of Azkaban, had come out to play for the first time in thirteen years.

Malfoy's words floated through her brain, and her eyes stung.

She wanted her mummy.

* * *

**A.N.**: I thought if Harry was a girl, he/she would have been a lot more sentimental and particularly delicate about her parents, and sometimes she might've reflected on things and realised she really needed them, or wanted them around.

* * *


	13. Mrs Malfoy

**A.N.**: Title and the appearance of said woman inspired by film six—she seemed a little more decent than her husband/son. I thought it'd be cool to see her away from the Dark Arts.

* * *

**Mrs Malfoy**

* * *

They were all still half-asleep and very groggy when Mr Weasley packed the tent up using magic, and set them marching across the campsite back to Mr Roberts' cottage and over the moor towards the portkey arrival/departure zone. Mrs Finnigan had Apparated with Dean and Seamus back to Ireland, and Fred and George were still grumbling about not being able to use Side-Along Apparition.

"I've already spoken with your father, Cedric," Mr Weasley said, as they queued up, Mr Weasley having had a brief discussion with Basil, for the portkey. "Your mother will be running around for a while yet because of last night, so we'd like you to come and stay with us, if that's alright by you."

Mrs Diggory seemed to already know Cedric would not come home; she and Mrs Weasley both came running down the lane from The Burrow, Mrs Weasley half-dressed, but both of them white-faced, and strained-looking. Mrs Weasley's cries echoed in the lane as she came running in her carpet-slippers and apron, "Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness!" A screwed-up copy of the _Daily Prophet_ was tucked into the band of her apron, and it was dislodged as Mrs Weasley threw herself at her husband. "We've been so worried—so _worried_!"

The newspaper unfurled on the dusty road, and Harriet glanced down to read _SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP_, and she saw the top-half of a twinkling black-and-white copy of the Dark Mark. Mrs Weasley was muttering distractedly to herself, "still alive," and glancing around at them all with red eyes.

Mrs Diggory, in complete contrast, was composed, silent, only her eyes betraying how turbulent her emotions were. She was Cedric's mirror, with the same glossy dark hair and lovely light-grey eyes, his pretty nose and the dimple in his cheek; tall and slender, she wore slim-fitting robes of a midnight purple, with dragon-hide boots. She strode up to Cedric, and Harriet suddenly felt as if she was intruding on something very private. The adoration Mrs Diggory felt for her son was visible only in her eyes, and the way she cupped his face tenderly and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and hugged him.

She was completely unlike Mr Diggory: Harriet thought Cedric took after her a great deal, and the thought made her like Cedric even more. She didn't much fancy Mr Diggory, after seeing the way he'd treated Winky, and even when the occasion presented itself, her.

Harriet gave a strangled yelp as she found herself crushed against Mrs Weasley's warm, cushy body, her face buried in her chest. "Oh, Harriet, I've been so worried—you must've been _terrified_! All those Death Eaters—what do you need, sweetheart?"

"Oxygen!" Harriet squeaked, and Mrs Weasley released her. Harriet staggered away, into Charlie, who chuckled.

"Come, now, Molly, we're all perfectly alright," Mr Weasley said soothingly, prising her away from the twins, who were both massaging their necks where Mrs Weasley had captured them to her, and leading her towards the house. Mrs Diggory had her arm around Cedric's waist, his arm around her shoulders, and they followed the Weasley clan back to The Burrow, talking quietly. Harriet lagged behind, dawdling behind the two happy families—sans Mr Diggory, of course.

But Mrs Weasley and Mrs Diggory—two _mothers_—had been waiting, stricken, for news of their children, wondering with complete terror whether they would ever see their babies again.

To distract herself, Harriet unfurled the newspaper Mrs Weasley had dropped, and shook her head. 'Special Correspondent Rita Skeeter,' she read. '_Ministry blunders…culprits not apprehended…lax security…Dark wizards running unchecked…national disgrace…Rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods…_' Mr Weasley was pouring a shot of Ogden's Old Firewhiskey into a large cup of tea for Mrs Weasley, Mrs Diggory sitting with Cedric close by, running her fingers through his hair.

"What's that you've got there, short-stack?" Charlie asked, as Harriet entered the kitchen. She glanced at the paper and handed it over, slipping her bag off and dumping it by the door to the living-room, sharing Rhona's chair at the kitchen-table, and accepting a cup of tea from Bill.

After reading the article, Mr Weasley groaned and started hurrying around putting on his work-robes, combing his hair, convincing Mrs Weasley he had to go into work to help smooth things out. Percy went too, which lessened the tension in the room, Harriet thought. They both left with Mrs Diggory, who had brought Cedric's trunk for him, as she anticipated she would be kept busy for the entire week, and Mrs Weasley had offered to put him up in a cot somewhere. Hermes had already retrieved _Hogwarts: A History_ and was glowering as he went through the pages: _Hogwarts: A History_ was his usual form of literary consolation when things were getting to him. Rhona helped Mrs Weasley prepare a large breakfast for them all, considering none of them had eaten before leaving the campsite earlier.

"You've been very quiet, half-pint," Charlie remarked, lifting her into his lap so she didn't have to perch one cheek on George's chair, which meant Cedric, sitting beside Charlie, was a lot closer. Harriet shrugged slightly, fiddling with the zipper of her warm light-brown _CALIFORNIA_ hoodie Aunt Petunia had bought her on sale from _New_ _Look_. It was really warm, and the inside was very fluffy. She caught Cedric glancing from her to Charlie, and looking almost annoyed. Rhona stalked past, carrying an enormous skillet of scrambled eggs (Bill had requested Mrs Weasley grate cheese into them, as he'd developed a taste for eggs served that way) around the table, to settle it on a heating-pad on the scrubbed table. Mrs Weasley finished cooking the bacon and sausages, tapped the baked beans to bring them to the boil, and finished browning the tomatoes and mushrooms.

"Um…Mrs Weasley?" Harriet spoke up, finishing the second plate of breakfast Mrs Weasley had ordered her to eat. "There haven't been any letters delivered, have there? Anything for me?"

"No, dear, there's been no post at all," Mrs Weasley said vaguely, overseeing the washing-up. "Why?"

"Oh…no reason," Harriet shrugged. Hermes wasn't fooled.

"Harriet, Rhona, why don't we go outside, take the wireless with us?" he suggested pointedly. "It's a beautiful morning..."

* * *

"_Now_—tell us what's going on."

They sat in a sunny patch at the back of the Weasleys' fabulously overgrown garden on a check blanket; Crookshanks was chasing a couple of gnomes across the lawn toward the pond. Over in the orchard, they could already see the twins, Charlie and Cedric flying. Harriet took a deep breath and sighed, glancing at her friends' faces.

"If I tell you, you've both got to promise me you won't freak out," she said sternly, and they glanced at each other.

"That all depends on what you're about to tell us," Rhona said tartly. Harriet frowned.

"Go on, Harriet, tell us," Hermes said gently, turning the volume down on _Witching Hour_. Harriet took a deep breath, and started to talk. She began at the most logical starting point—waking up to her scar burning, and what she remembered of the dream. Their reactions were exactly those she had envisioned in her bedroom in Privet Drive. Hermes hushed Rhona, however, and encouraged Harriet to keep going.

She told them about the day with Aunt Petunia (which stunned them perhaps more than it had startled her, as they knew just how the Dursleys treated Harriet).

"…and then Professor Dumbledore came to pick me up, and he said something like, his wishes hadn't been followed by Aunt Petunia, raising me, and he sent her the letter," Harriet sighed. "And then I told him about my scar, and the dream—"

"Oh, you did? Oh, good!" Hermes breathed a sigh of relief. "What did he do?"

"Well…" Harriet glanced from Hermes to Rhona, whose jaw was slack, her freckles still white from Harriet's recounting of the dream, and the revelation of Harriet's imminent demise, and back to Hermes. "Professor Dumbledore wants to give me private lessons when we get back to Hogwarts."

Hermes' and Rhona's jaws dropped. Hermes' eyes widened.

"_Private lessons!_" he repeated, looking at once excited, curious, and jealous. "Oh _wow_! He must want to teach you powerful magic! Nothing they'd teach us at Hogwarts, I'd bet."

"I don't think so," Harriet frowned. "I don't know—it didn't seem that way to me. He just said it was 'something that has everything to do with Lord Voldemort,' but he didn't tell me what he'd be teaching me."

"It _is_ Dumbledore," Rhona said, managing to close her mouth. "Knowing him, it could be anything." Hermes thought Dumbledore would be teaching her powerful counter-magic. Harriet agreed with Rhona that he could as likely be teaching her how to knit. (There had been a rumour going round Hogwarts that Professor Dumbledore loved knitting-patterns last year, and Harriet remembered his somewhat untruthful reply when she'd asked him what he saw in the Mirror of Erised—socks. 'People must insist on sending me books, he'd said at the time').

"Bound to be something special, though, isn't it," Rhona said, leaning back on her taut arms, her sleeves rolled up to let the sun brown them, turning her face into the sun. "If it's about You-Know-Who."

"…It's a bit…_strange_, isn't it?" Harriet sighed, an hour later, when they were all lying spread-eagled on the freshly-cut grass, munching on chicken and stuffing sandwiches, sipping ice-cold pumpkin juice that Charlie had brought out for them when they'd missed lunch, still talking about the possibilities that could make up Dumbledore's lessons.

"What is?" Rhona grumbled; she sighed and turned onto her stomach, making the backs of her legs and arms available to the sun's rays, tucking her long ponytail away from her back.

"I have a dream about Voldemort—"

"Say _You-Know-Who_, would you," Rhona hissed, lifting her head and giving Harriet a glare. Harriet rolled her eyes, twisting her hair into a ponytail, but lacking a band to tie it, and instead stuck her wand into the bun.

"Go on, Harriet," Hermes said: he was perusing the first chapter of _Hogwarts: A History_ with an intense frown.

"I dream about Voldemort—oh, shut up, Rhona!—I dream about Voldemort planning to get powerful again, and three nights later his supporters are on the march for the first time in over a decade, _and_ his Mark appears," Harriet frowned. "It's just…Nothing ever happens for a reason, does it."

"If you're talking about _destiny_!" Hermes snickered; they all knew how Hermes felt about Divination.

"No—I'm talking about…maybe Dumbledore knows something's up," Harriet frowned, tugging at the grass. "You know, maybe he senses something's about to happen with Voldemort—and maybe me telling him about my dream confirmed whatever he's thinking."

"Mm," Rhona murmured.

"He could be teaching you things to prepare you," Hermes mused. "In case you have to face him again. That seems most likely. Mind you, I can't imagine he'd put you through anything you couldn't handle, or try and teach you anything that was too dangerous, by any standards."

* * *

… "Harriet."

"Ugh."

"Wake up, dear," Mrs Weasley was shaking her shoulder, and Harriet glanced around blearily in the bright sunlight. "You fell asleep, dear." She glanced around; Rhona and Hermes were also both asleep, but Mrs Weasley was only waking Harriet.

"S'matter?" she asked blearily.

"There's someone here to see you," Mrs Weasley said, and Harriet's eyes flew open. _Sirius_!

It wasn't Sirius. It was, however, "Mrs _Malfoy_?"

It was Draco's _mother_.

"Oh, _shit_," she heard Rhona whisper across the garden, and Mrs Weasley turned to give her a very threatening look, but Rhona didn't see it, exchanging a loaded look with Hermes.

"I would like a word with you, Miss Potter," Mrs Malfoy said, and Harriet was surprised by how _nice_ her voice was. It wasn't a hiss, as she might've expected from a Malfoy. Mrs Malfoy glanced at Mrs Weasley, who remained in the yard, but looked as if she wanted to follow Harriet. Rhona had told Mrs Weasley all about Harriet's Muggle brawl with Draco Malfoy. Harriet followed Mrs Malfoy around the house, where the flowerbeds blossomed with vibrant colour and beautiful scents.

Mrs Malfoy was tall, slender, and immaculately groomed: her hair was dark, with two fair locks stemming from her temples, tied into the bun at the base of her neck, and she wore diaphanous mousseline-silk robes of a delicate, pale bluebell purple. Diamonds and moonstones glittered at her throat, ears and fingers. She had very dark eyes, unlike her son, and Harriet thought Draco unfortunately looked a lot more like his father. Unlike Mrs Weasley, Narcissa Malfoy wore makeup, lining her dark eyes, bringing out the shape of her lips with deep burgundy-red.

She stopped in the lawn outside the kitchen, looking around her with an impassive expression, then she turned to Harriet, and it seemed to Harriet that Mrs Malfoy was trying to read Harriet's very soul, trying to get the measure of her.

"My son was never taught, as a child, to use his hands or his wand to hurt others," she spoke abruptly, and Harriet jumped slightly. She focused on Mrs Malfoy's dark eyes, which were strangely like liquid liquorice, the same image Harriet got whenever she looked into Hagrid's eyes. There was a lot of emotion in Mrs Malfoy's eyes. "Draco was taught to avoid physical confrontation, and instead to focus on finding the point in a person which would hurt them the most."

"Oh…"

"I understand that, over the years, there has been a great enmity between my son and you and your friends," Mrs Malfoy said, flicking her eyes over The Burrow with a small frown. "However deceitful Slytherins are, my relationship with my son has always been one of complete truth. When Draco arrived back at our tent yesterday evening, he told me _exactly_ what happened between him, and you." Harriet looked down, at the floor, feeling a flush of shame creep up her throat.

"I have come to apologise," Mrs Malfoy said, and Harriet glanced up, gaping. A Malfoy was _apologising _to her. "Draco told me exactly what he said about your mother last night—and I bear you no ill-will for reacting the way you did… Draco has never known true suffering, as you have."

"Is he… Is he alright?" Harriet asked guiltily.

"Oh, he was patched up in no time," Mrs Malfoy said, waving an elegant hand that glittered with jewels. "And, hopefully, the shock of being assaulted by you will stop him ever insulting another person without thinking of the consequences first." Harriet arched an eyebrow; _Not likely_. "Or—perhaps, and most likely—it has instilled in him a desire to catch you out as soon as you get to Hogwarts, and are not under Ministry guidelines as to the use of hexes in the hallways."

A tiny hint of a smile, more of a smirk than anything, crept onto Mrs Malfoy's crimson lips.

"So you came to warn me in case he decides to jinx me?" Harriet grinned. Mrs Malfoy raised her eyebrows expressively and smirked deeply.

"You know—there is not a letter I receive from Draco in which your name is _not_ mentioned," Mrs Malfoy said thoughtfully, cocking her head to one side, her dark eyes roving over Harriet's face. "I knew your mother, you know." Harriet glanced up.

"Not well—I was several years above your parents at Hogwarts, and in Slytherin," Mrs Malfoy said, as if making sure Harriet understood the distinction of her being a pureblood Slytherin princess. "Your father was a great friend of my cousin's. And your mother—her eyes made boys forget how to walk." Harriet grinned, and Mrs Malfoy winked.

"I think Mrs Weasley wants you back in her sight now," she said, glancing through the kitchen window; Harriet glanced over her shoulder through the window, and saw a patch of red amongst the brown of the yard through the kitchen door outside. So they walked back around the house, met Mrs Weasley in the yard, and Mrs Malfoy bid them a very polite farewell, reminding Harriet to remember what she'd said about Draco, and walked to the Apparition point.

"What the blinking buggary was that all about?" Rhona asked, striding over to Harriet and slinging an arm around her shoulders, dragging her back to their blanket.

"Just came to warn me," Harriet shrugged, as they dropped back onto the grass.

"About your imminent demise?"

"About Draco planning to curse me as soon as we get back to school," Harriet grinned. Rhona, who had taken a big swig of pumpkin-juice, spat it out all over Hermes.

"Oh! Nice!" Hermes wrinkled his nose, using his wand to siphon juice from his face and a page of _Hogwarts: A History_.

"Let me get this straight—Mrs Malfoy came all the way to The Burrow, not to hex you to oblivion for beating the shit out of her son, but to warn you about him being a slimy git?" Rhona stared.

"Well, that wasn't her _exact_ phrasing," Harriet rolled her eyes. "But the idea was the same, I suppose." Rhona continued to stare for a few minutes. Then Hermes lifted his head, frowning.

"I forgot—why were you asking if there was any post this morning?" he asked.

"Oh…I wrote to Sirius," Harriet said, and they both glanced at her excitedly. As instrumental in Sirius' escape as Harriet had been, it was natural for her friends to be worried about his wellbeing, now that they both knew he was innocent.

"Well, it'll take Hedwig more than a few days to deliver _that_ letter," Hermes said. "Didn't you guess he was somewhere in Africa or something the last time he wrote?"

* * *

Hermes was half-right. It did take Hedwig a little longer to return with a reply than usual—halfway through the next week (which had been spent mostly playing Quidditch in the orchard with Bill, Charlie, the twins, and Cedric, who had now earned the respect and admiration of someone more like a brother than a friend or neighbour, mostly because he flew so well, but also because Bill and Charlie liked him, and the twins and Bill and Charlie would rather have had him for a brother than Percy) Hedwig tapped her beak against the living-room window. It was past midnight, and everyone else had gone to bed, though the girls (and Hermes) weren't asleep.

Rhona had been painting Harriet's toenails with a free sample-bottle of _Madam Primpernelle's Quick-Dry No-Mess Scented Nail-Colour_ (the room was filled with the smell of raspberry compote, as the nailpolish was a vibrant raspberry-pink) and Harriet had been rereading a few letters, mostly from Remus. (She had put in the effort to stay in touch with the professor whom she had admired and loved so much, and he seemed hardly less willing to stop writing to her in return). Hermes was still reading _Hogwarts: A History _and they had been eating their way through a bucket of buttery popcorn, bowls of homemade marshmallows and honey-roasted nuts and pistachios.

"Nails!" Rhona hissed, as Harriet leapt off the sofa and dived to the window, undoing the latch: Hedwig landed on the sill, ruffled her feathers, and stuck her leg out, hooting softly, blinking happily, and looking tired.

"She's got a reply!" Harriet gasped, and Rhona tripped over her slippers trying to disentangle herself from their blankets. Harriet carried Hedwig over to Pig's cage (he was on another delivery, this time for Charlie, seeing as Errol wasn't up even for short-distance journeys) and gave her a few owl treats from the box on the dresser. They had to keep Pig downstairs in the living-room, because he annoyed Bill and Charlie if he was upstairs, and Errol and Hermione (Percy's owl) if he was in the kitchen. He annoyed them, too, so they kept his cage covered with a blanket to confuse him when he was home, which stopped him twittering incessantly.

Harriet bounced onto the sofa, sitting cross-legged, and Rhona ceased struggling to get free, peering over her shoulder. Hermes closed his book, keeping place with his thumb. "What's it say?" Harriet undid the string keeping the envelope in a roll and undid the seal, tearing Sirius' letter out.

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_You really have a truly remarkable owl in Hedwig. We crossed paths over Barcelona. She seemed to know I was already moving northwards. I know what you'll say when you read this, but you don't have to worry; I'll be well disguised. Dumbledore sought me out, worried you may need some form of parental support this year. He's told me about your private lessons, and he's asked me to come back and be close to you at all times. He knew I'd never refuse that offer!_

_Listen, this news about your scar is last in a series of disturbing pieces of news that have reached me on my travels. If your scar hurts you again before I see you, go straight to Mr Weasley and ask for him to contact Dumbledore._

_He's reading the signs, even if no-one else can see them yet._

_You'll see me soon. My regards to Rhona and Hermes. Keep your ears open and your eyes peeled, especially after what happened at the Quidditch World Cup. We'll talk about __that__, too._

_All my love,_

_Uncle Padfoot_.

* * *

"Buggaration!" Harriet swore, smacking herself in the forehead with her clenched fist. She continued to hit herself until Rhona grabbed hold of her wrist and rested the letter from her grip.

"He's—he's coming_ back_?" She raised her eyebrows. "But…" She glanced at Harriet, "but that's what you _want_, isn't it, for him to be nearer?"

"Yes, but—what if he's _caught_?" Harriet whispered, feeling sick. She massaged her stomach, knowing her nausea had everything to do with anxiety. What if he was captured? She didn't ever want him to go back to Azkaban—or get Kissed by the Dementors.

"Well…it says here he's sorted it with Dumbledore," Rhona said, glancing back up from the letter. "If Dumbledore's involved, I doubt anybody'll be able to touch him."

"Maybe…if he gets that far," Harriet cringed guiltily. Why hadn't she just kept her mouth shut? A few seconds' pain, a mad panic, and she'd put her godfather's life in danger for it?

"Harriet, Sirius is _smart_," Hermes said, catching Harriet's eye. "He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. He's escaped the Dementors twice, hasn't he?"

Harriet got up before even Mrs Weasley had, took her writing box and tiptoed into the quiet, sun-filled kitchen. Her brain had concocted a fully-formed plan while she'd slept. She wouldn't let Sirius risk everything for her, not again, not even if Dumbledore was helping.

* * *

_Dear Sirius,_

_Please__ don't come back to England on account of me. I don't want you caught or Kissed because of me._

_I hadn't got much sleep the night I wrote to you—I might've imagined my scar hurting. There's no point putting yourself in danger for me, not again._

_My head feels absolutely as normal as usual…which isn't saying much, but…not the point._

_The point is—I want my godfather around for a few more decades, so he can watch me screw up my own kids, 'cos he didn't get to watch my dad mess me up (or help, as I've imagined you might've!) So please don't do anything to impair that wish!_

_I love you,_

_Your (very concerned and guilty) goddaughter._

* * *

Yes. Slightly grovelly, but it would do. Hopefully the bit about him being around to see her children grow up would encourage him not to be reckless. Especially the bit about him not being around to mess _her_ up. Hopefully she'd make him feel so guilty that he abandoned his plans. She tiptoed back into the living-room, woke up Hedwig, and carried her into the yard, breathing easier once she was outside.

"Please find him," she whispered to Hedwig, who blinked sleepily but tested out her wings, allowing Harriet to tie her letter to her leg. "_Before_ the Dementors do, _please_?"

Hedwig gave a soft, comforting hoot, spread her wings, and took off. Within minutes, so was no larger than a brilliant speck in the ever-lightening sky.

She amused herself until the rest of the house woke by sneaking into the twins' bedroom and giving them moustaches with the last of her colour-change ink, and tied Charlie's blankets to the legs of his bed so tightly he couldn't get out. This led to them all getting several more pieces of bacon and a lot more eggs than usual at breakfast, as Charlie still hadn't managed to get out of bed, (Bill had been too amused to set him free, and Hermes and Cedric were both downstairs in the living-room with the girls now) and Mrs Weasley assumed he was having a lie-in. The twins actually rather admired her artistic skills in Fred's huge walrus moustache, and George's curling handlebar one that was inspired by the Muggle film _Hook_ that Daisy had watched every day when they were nine. Harriet murmured to Hermes and Rhona what she'd done.

"You brazen little _liar_!"

* * *

**A.N.**: One word—Sirius! Love him!

* * *


	14. OWL Results

**A.N.**: I rewrote a few sections of earlier chapters so this chapter would work out: The twins and Cedric, all sixth-years, get their O.W.L. results late (because, obviously, of the teachers working hard to ensure the Triwizard Tournament will take place).

* * *

**O.W.L. Results**

* * *

The morning after, Harriet woke up earlier than usual, again, and had decided to treat Mrs Weasley by preparing the breakfast for everyone. It took a lot longer than it usually took Harriet to make breakfast, as she had to navigate her way around Mrs Weasley's pantry and larder, but going through some of her cookbooks, Harriet learned a few very useful little charms.

The post-owls arrived just after she had started cooking the bacon, and she had to open the kitchen window as wide as it would go so the three magnificent eagle owls could soar into the kitchen, bearing envelopes stamped with the Hogwarts crest. She took the letters, gave each bird a bit of bacon, and they left with great _whooshes _of their wings. Turning the sausages, Harriet examined the addressees; _Fredrick Weasley, George Weasley, _and _Cedric Diggory_. A small note at the bottom-right-hand corner of each envelope at the front read '_This envelope contains private and confidential examination results_'.

It looked like the much-anticipated O.W.L. results had arrived. _About time, too_, Harriet thought; Mrs Weasley was almost beside herself, wondering how on earth the school could have possibly been so busy with…but she hadn't said what it was, that was keeping them from sending out the results with all the usual Hogwarts letters. She tucked them into the pocket of her dressing-gown, intent on giving them to the boys, but by the time Cedric shuffled out of the living-room, tousle-haired and puffy-eyed and looking very cute, she had forgotten about them. She muttered a charm that kept the food warm while it waited for consumption, and Cedric smiled, shuffling into the kitchen, squinting in the sunlight. This morning his boxers were yellow with badgers gambolling around happily.

"I didn't know Hogwarts sold House underwear," she whispered teasingly; Hermes wasn't a very deep sleeper. Cedric gave her a groggy little smile and felt the side of the teapot with the back of his fingers, taking a teacup from the cupboard above it. The teapot was always warm in The Burrow—everybody was always drinking tea, and if anyone needed to know how long people had been _away_ from The Burrow, all they had to do was feel the teapot. Harriet sipped her tea and turned the sausages, transferring the bacon to a platter, and put it on the table; Cedric was cracking eggs onto the skillet. They worked in perfect silence for another ten minutes, preparing the breakfast, and when they heard sounds of life upstairs, they set the table, made another pot of tea, and stood waiting, smiling, for Mrs Weasley, always the first to rise, to come downstairs and stopped, stunned, at the foot of the stairs.

On the kitchen table was spread a platter of bacon, sausages, fried eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, a big tureen of creamy porridge that had a little cinnamon and pieces of dates in it, a big bowl of fresh berries (strawberries, huge blackberries from the bushes down the lane that they had picked yesterday evening, sweet, tangy raspberries), stacks of buttered toast, a platter of thin French crêpes drizzled with lemon juice and sugar, pots of homemade jam and marmalade and a large coffeepot, the teapot, the _Daily Prophet_ unfolded in Mr Weasley's place, this fortnight's publication of _Witch Weekly_ in Mrs Weasley's. Mrs Weasley looked absolutely stunned.

"Oh, Harriet, how good you are to me!" she wept, and had to be poured a strong cup of tea. Gradually the other members of the household made their way downstairs, roused by the scents Harriet's cooking had sent wafting up the rickety staircase. Mr Weasley liked the nutmeg Harriet had put in the coffee, to give it an extra little bit of flavour, and Cedric really liked the cinnamon-date porridge. George's mouth went black from the number of blackberries he'd eaten by the end of the meal, and Fred had put in a request for crêpes tomorrow.

Something crackled softly as Harriet sat down, after pouring fresh cups of tea for Charlie and Bill, who wolfed down the porridge and sausages and bacon and eggs. Bill really liked the coffee, too. Harriet pulled the three envelopes out of her dressing-gown pocket.

"Um…Mrs Weasley, these arrived earlier," Harriet said, handing them to Mrs Weasley. She stared at the addressees, and divvied the envelopes out. Fred and George rolled their eyes at each other, switched envelopes because they hadn't been given the right ones, and tore them open.

"Not bad," Fred sighed.

"As I expected," George agreed.

Mrs Weasley took the letters before they could hide them, and the row that ensued scared everyone from the kitchen, to the far reaches of the house; Harriet, Rhona, Cedric and Hermes reconvened in the living-room with their toast and porridge and teacups, and tried not to listen to Mr _and_ Mrs Weasley bellowing at the top of their lungs, trying to outdo each other, shouting at the twins.

Harriet sat cross-legged, finishing her porridge, and eyed Cedric.

"Haven't you opened yours yet?" she asked shrewdly, as he tried to tuck his envelope into his copy of _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_. Setting her bowl down, Harriet lunged forward, plucked the envelope out of the book, and broke the seal on Cedric's envelope.

"Hey! That's a felony!" Cedric frowned, reaching for the letter.

"So report me!" Harriet murmured, opening the letter, and glanced down the list of subjects.

* * *

**ORDINARY WIZARDING LEVEL RESULTS**

_**Pass Grades: Fail Grades**_

OUTSTANDING (O) POOR (P)

EXCEEDS EXPECTATIONS (E) DREADFUL (D)

ACCEPTABLE (A) TROLL (T)

* * *

_Cedric __Donnally Diggory has achieved:_

Ancient Runes O

Arithmancy O

Astronomy O

Charms O

Defence Against the Dark Arts O

Herbology O

History of Magic O

Muggle Studies O

Potions O

Transfiguration O

* * *

"Ten 'Outstandings'," Harriet breathed, glancing up at Cedric. He looked pale and nervous, and he darted over to her, snatching the letter back. His light eyes zoomed over the parchment, his lips parting.

"_Ten_ 'Outstanding' O.W.L.s!" Hermes breathed, shuffling over to Cedric to peer over his shoulder, tweak his eyebrows, and give Cedric an admiring look.

"That's _really_ good!" Rhona breathed, peering over Cedric's other shoulder. "And you're not even doing dossy subjects, either—look—Ancient Runes, Arithmancy. You can do _anything_ with these."

But Cedric just folded up the results, put them back into their envelope, and asked if he could borrow some parchment and a quill; he sat down in an armchair and started to write, and half an hour later, he was asking to borrow Pig, who had just returned from a delivery for Charlie.

* * *

"I don't know how he can stand it!" Rhona said, when she and Harriet sprawled over a blanket in the garden, for the first time in a while just watching the boys playing Quidditch rather than participating. They had decided to fester in the sun on the last day of holiday.

"Who?"

"Cedric," Rhona said, turning her face to Harriet's. "He's just got ten 'Outstanding' O.W.L.s—_Percy_ didn't even get ten 'Outstandings'. And he's not saying anything to anyone about his results, 'cos he doesn't want to cause hassle with Mum and the twins."

"_More_ hassle," Hermes sighed, and Harriet squirmed to glance back at the house; Mrs Weasley was still shouting.

"Maybe we should throw him a little party, out here," Harriet suggested. "Get a couple of bottles of Butterbeer, and a cake or something."

"Yeah…Yeah, come on, there's bound to be something nice in the pantry," Rhona said, hopping off the floor. She hauled Harriet off the blanket and they made their way slowly back to the Burrow, cringing when they heard Mrs Weasley crying, as Fred and George stormed out into the yard, with expressions to rival a Basilisk's powers of Petrification.

Bill was talking quietly to Mrs Weasley, his arm around her shaking shoulders—"they don't mean to upset you by saying things like that, you know they don't," he said gently.

"But they had such _bright futures_," Mrs Weasley choked, sniffing miserably into a handkerchief.

"They still do," Bill said consolingly. "You remember when Charlie failed his Potions O.W.L.—and he's done alright, hasn't he?"

"But…C-Charlie wanted to work with animals, _all_ his life," Mrs Weasley cried. "He got top marks in Care of Magical Creatures, didn't he!" Bill caught Harriet's and Rhona's eyes, and when Mrs Weasley hid her face in her handkerchief again, he rolled his eyes. Rhona plucked at Harriet's sleeve and they tiptoed to the pantry; they found a large jug of iced Butterbeer and a platter of the fairy-cakes they'd made yesterday; they were decorated with different coloured icing, silver sugar balls, sprinkles, coloured sugar, glace cherries (which were Harriet's favourite), and chocolate-chips.

"Hey, should we make up some sandwiches, so your mum doesn't have to?" Harriet asked quietly, and Rhona, glancing over her shoulder into the kitchen, where Bill was refilling Mrs Weasley's favourite flower-patterned teacup, nodded.

"Yeah, keep _us_ in her good books, at least," she said, giving Harriet a wary glance. They cut up a loaf of bread and made sandwiches—ham and coleslaw—and carried them outside; Rhona took most of the sandwiches to the orchard for the boys, and when she returned, she was accompanied by Cedric.

"Charlie's talking to the twins," Rhona said edgily, and they all dropped down onto the check blanket. Hermes was fiddling with the wireless so they could listen to _Muggle Matinee_, which he and Harriet really liked, because the female presenter had really good taste in music, and Harriet was spreading out the bowl of crisps and pouring the drinks.

"Alright, here you go," she said, handing out the glasses, and she raised her own. "To Cedric—"

"Who isn't just a pretty face," Rhona interjected, clinking glasses with Harriet.

"Who got ten Outstanding O.W.L.s," Harriet grinned.

"Here's to you!" Hermes grinned. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Cedric grinned bashfully, locking eyes with Harriet, and beaming.

"You know, I reckon you're a bit _too_ modest, Cedric," Rhona remarked, licking the icing off the top of her second fairy-cake. Harriet had hoarded half the ones with the glace cherries on top (Cedric liked these, too, and they'd actually had a wrestling match over the odd cake) and Hermes was sipping his Butterbeer, frowning at the pages of _The Dark Forces_. "Anybody in our family would've been the first to gloat over ten Outstandings, especially 'cos Fred and George probably didn't even get those marks combined." Cedric just shrugged and licked the pink icing from his lips.

Harriet thought he was very good not to gloat, when there was so much tension in the house already; she got the feeling Cedric worked hard but didn't mind if people didn't notice.

* * *

**A.N.**: Amour!

* * *


	15. Hogwarts Again

**A.N.**: Back to Hogwarts. Yay! I've had a lot more fun writing the next chapters! (I'm now on 31 and I haven't even reached October yet!)

* * *

**Hogwarts Again**

* * *

It was with a distinct sense of gloom that their last evening of holiday approached. It found Harriet and Rhona in the living-room, having banished everyone else from it so they could pack their trunks, and the evening edition of _Witching Hour_ was spewing Celestina Warbeck in the kitchen, where the rest of the family sans Mr Weasley and Percy (who were both still at the office) were having tea and cake for their supper.

"Here you are, dears, here's the last of your new things," Mrs Weasley said, bustling into the room laden down with packages: one of them, the largest box, was pale mauve in colour, tied with a creamy satin ribbon. A few piles of laundry followed her in mid-air, and they divested themselves onto the sofa.

Mrs Weasley handed out two new _Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four, _by Miranda Goshawk, two copies of _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ and two boxes of refills for their potion-making kits, handfuls of new quills, brand-new bottles of ink (which was excellent, as Harriet was now officially out, and Mrs Weasley had bought the royal-purple Harriet loved, as well as a midnight-blue, and another Colour-Change) and a dozen rolls of parchment.

Harriet was just rolling her brand-new pretty underwear and her freshly-laundered socks into her scrubbed cauldron when Rhona made a loud noise of disgust.

"Mum, what on _earth_ is _this_ supposed to me?" she asked, gaping disgustedly at something resembling frilly lace curtains Mrs Figg had hanging in her living-room window in Magnolia Crescent.

"Dress robes," Mrs Weasley said complacently. "It says on your school lists you're to have dress robes this year."

"This is a _dress_?" Rhona gaped, appalled. Harriet, frowning at the mass of aged lace, went over to Rhona, bent down, and fumbled around until she'd found a small neckline, a row of neat silk-covered buttons, and the shoulders, and turned the dress robes the right way up.

"They're dress robes, Rhona—for formal occasions," Mrs Weasley said, sighing.

"You've _got to be joking_!" Rhona gaped incredulously. "I'm not wearing _this_."

"Don't be silly, Rhona," Mrs Weasley sighed. "Everyone wears them. I've got a set for your father's smart parties."

"I'll go starkers before I put _that_ on," Rhona declared.

"You've got to have dress robes, Rhona," Mrs Weasley frowned. "They're on your list…I got some for Harriet too. Harriet, show her." With some trepidation, Harriet went over to the mauve box, cringing to herself. Even the box for her dress robes was finer: Mrs Weasley had obviously used Harriet's money to go somewhere a lot more expensive than the place that wrapped purchases in paper and string. She undid the neat bow on top of the box and lifted the lid.

She glimpsed a diaphanous, pale-gold net sewn heavily with glittering crystal seed-beads, over a shimmering darker-gold silk, and lifted only the top half of the dress, which had a straight neckline and delicate little cap-sleeves, and boning in the bodice, out of the box, not wanting to show Rhona the full extent of luxury.

"I thought you'd like the colour," Mrs Weasley smiled affectionately at Harriet. "It'll bring out your eyes—gold always does look lovely with green. I thought about green robes, but none of them were quite…_feminine_ enough."

"Well _they're_ fabulous," Rhona said indignantly. "Why couldn't I have some like those?"

"Because…well…I had to get yours second-hand, and there wasn't that much choice!" Mrs Weasley said, flushed. Money was a touchy subject with all of the Weasleys, except perhaps Charlie and Bill, who were now self-sufficient with well-established careers.

Harriet focused on making her wand re-tie the cream ribbon into the pretty bow, her stomach sinking. She would have willingly halved all her family's gold with the Weasleys, but she knew they would never accept it. They had a touch of pride the same as she did.

"I'm not wearing them!" Rhona said abruptly. "I'd rather put _pins_ in my eyes! Or kiss _Snape_!!"

"Fine! Go naked—and, Harriet, dear, make sure you take photographs with your camera," Mrs Weasley said wearily. "Lord knows we'd all love a laugh!" Biting back her smirk, Harriet turned, grinning, to pack her trunk, thinking it best to let Rhona fester out her mood.

* * *

The next morning, the weather seemed to have guessed it was the end of an era: rain lashed in great sheets against the windows, flooding the yard, and Mr Weasley was running around like a maniac getting ready for work. Harriet heard him, as she and Rhona shared the bathroom (Rhona was washing her hair in the shower; Harriet was trying to detangle hers in front of the bathroom mirror, which kept shouting orders to help her tidy herself up). Harriet almost concussed herself on the toilet-bowl when she tripped, trying to tug her jeans on, and by the time she'd brushed her hair, Rhona was also trying to do her hair; in the end, Harriet squatted down a little bit more, and with Rhona standing over her, they both managed to get ready in half the time it took Percy to get showered and ready for work.

When they emerged in the kitchen, Harriet had to do a big double-take. Amos Diggory's head was sitting quite comfortably in the middle of the kitchen fire—"Muggle neighbours heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those, what-d'you-call-'ems—please-men. Arthur, you've gotta get over there before the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on him. If Rita Skeeter gets her hands on this one—"

Mrs Weasley ushered them into the room, motioning them to be silent, and sat them down for porridge, toast, and tea while Mr Weasley scribbled furiously on a scrap bit of parchment. "What does Mad-Eye say happened?"

Mr Diggory's eyes rolled exasperatedly.

"You know what he's like—says he heard an intruder in his garden, says they were creeping towards the house, but were ambushed by his dustbins."

"What did the dustbins do?" Mr Weasley asked. If Harriet hadn't been privy to _many_ weird conversations in her time at Hogwarts, she might have thought she was going round the twist.

"Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere," Mr Diggory said, shaking his head in the fire. "One of them was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up."

"The intruder?"

"You know Mad-Eye! It's my guess there's a very shell-shocked cat staggering around," Mr Diggory scoffed gently. "But you know his record—if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Moody—we've got to get him off on a minor charge—what's an exploding dustbin worth in your department?"

"A caution, at most," Mr Weasley said, still scribbling furiously. "Mad-Eye didn't attack anyone, did he, didn't actually use his wand?"

"I'll bet he leapt out of bed and started hexing everything within reach," Mr Diggory said, rolling his eyes again. "There aren't any casualties, though, so they'll have a hard time proving it." Mr Weasley dashed out of the kitchen, stuffing the parchment into his robes, and Mr Diggory turned to Mrs Weasley, who was refilling teacups.

"Sorry about this, Molly," Mr Diggory sighed, calmer now. "Bothering you so early—and I know Arthur was going with you to the station this morning…but he's the only one who can get Mad-Eye off—he's supposed to be starting his new job today! Why he chose last night!"

"That's perfectly alright, Amos," Mrs Weasley said. Mr Diggory caught sight of Harriet and Hermes gawping at him, and Cedric pouring tea for them, and grinned.

"Hi Dad," Cedric said quietly.

"Heard about your results, Ced," Mr Diggory grinned from ear to ear, looking like a disembodied Cheshire Cat. "Excellent, son! _Really_ excellent! Your mum and I are both really chuffed!" Harriet noticed Mrs Weasley flicked her eyes over Cedric, frowning slightly—probably remembering that she hadn't asked Cedric about his results, what with the argument with the twins. But Harriet, Cedric, Rhona and Hermes had had a really nice afternoon, enjoying the last bit of Devon sunshine.

"Hullo Harriet," Mr Diggory smiled, and ignored Hermes, who'd given him a right ribbing when he'd come over after work the first night Cedric had slept over, about what had happened to Winky after they'd left the clearing that night. "All set for school?"

"Yup. I'm glad to be going back," Harriet smiled.

"I wish I was going back, and all," Mr Diggory sighed, "especially with what's happening there this year."

"Are you sure you won't have anything before you go, Amos?" Mrs Weasley asked carefully, and Harriet got the impression she was cutting Mr Diggory off before he revealed too much. All of the adults (Percy and upwards, in The Burrow) kept making veiled hints about something that was happening about Hogwarts. They always changed the subject when they thought they'd gone too near to breaching confidence, or flatly refused their pleas to tell them what was going on. Mrs Weasley passed Mr Diggory a slice of buttered toast through the fire and with a small muffled thanks and a _pop_, he had vanished.

* * *

Because of the mayhem at the Ministry, Mr Weasley had been unable to borrow Ministry cars to get them all to Hogwarts: Mrs Weasley had braved the telephone-box in Ottery St Catchpole (Harriet and Hermes giving her tips, like not shouting, and which way to hold the receiver) and had ordered three Muggle taxis to get them to London. Bill and Charlie had decided they'd come and see them off from Platform Nine and Three Quarters, and the Muggle taxi-drivers looked most perturbed that Charlie could lift one trunk quite easily with his bulging arms while it took two to lift Rhona's small trunk.

Dressed in jeans, jumpers (the odd pair of Wellington boots) and raincoats, they all watched the taxi-drivers heave six heavy Hogwarts trunks and three owl cages into the boots of the cars: Pigwidgeon became thoroughly overexcited and zoomed around his cage making a racket, annoying Donella, Cedric's beautiful Barn Owl. A load of Dr Filibuster's Fabulous No-Heat, Wet-Start Fireworks went off when the driver dropped Fred's trunk on his foot, causing Crookshanks to claw and scratch his way over them all.

They got soaked carrying their things into the station—Charlie and Bill got them all trolleys, and by the time they all stood in Platform Nine and Three Quarters, Bill, Charlie and Mrs Weasley were all lovely and dry. Harriet, Rhona and Hermes went to go and find a compartment (Cedric had to find the Prefect compartment) and stowed their trunks and owl cages (Harriet's was empty, as Hedwig had not returned from Sirius with a confirmation that he was staying out of England) and left Crookshanks to ruminate on being shell-shocked in his basket. They returned to the platform to say goodbye to Bill, Charlie and Mrs Weasley.

"I might be seeing you all sooner than you think," Charlie said, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye not unlike the twins'.

"Why?" Fred asked eagerly.

"You'll see—don't want Percy finding out I mentioned that, alright. It's 'classified information until the Ministry sees fit to release it,' after all," Charlie smirked.

"I wish I was going back to Hogwarts this year," Bill sighed, gazing longingly at the scarlet steam-engine.

"_Why_?"

"You're going to have an interesting year," Bill grinned. "I might even get time off to watch a bit of it."

"A bit of _what_?" Rhona asked indignantly.

"Hey, shrimpo, you remember what I told you?" Charlie said, turning to give Harriet a bone-crunching hug of Hagrid-proportions. Harriet grinned and rolled her eyes.

"Keep my thumb tucked out of the way," she sighed, making a fist the way Charlie had taught her.

"That's right," Charlie grinned.

"Charlie, what've you been teaching her?" Mrs Weasley asked sharply, and Harriet dropped her hands.

"Nothing, Mum," Charlie said innocently, but with the air the twins always put on when they didn't want to start a row.

"Well—Harriet, dear, come here," Mrs Weasley beamed, holding her arms out. Harriet went over to her and was embarrassed, but at the same time very pleased, when Mrs Weasley gave her an extra hug.

"Take care of yourself, won't you?" Mrs Weasley sniffed. She glanced at Rhona. "And no more wandering off into the grounds in the middle of the night, you hear?"

"Yeah, yeah," Rhona rolled her eyes.

"We won't be wandering off, Mrs Weasley," Hermes smiled soothingly.

"Yeah, no one's trying to kill me this year," Harriet said, "so there'd really be no point!"

"Alright, on the train with you all," Mrs Weasley said, her eyes sparkling as she captured her sons with last-minute kisses that made them grimace—she reminded Harriet to get a photo of Rhona 'starkers' instead of wearing her dress robes, and demanded the twins behave themselves.

"Thank you, Mrs Weasley, for having me," Cedric said, and Mrs Weasley gave him a hug and ushered him onto the train.

"I'd ask you all over for Christmas," Mrs Weasley called, beaming, "but I expect you'd like to stay at Hogwarts, what with…one thing and another."

"Tell us what's happening at Hogwarts!" Fred and George shouted together.

"You'll find out this evening, I expect," Mrs Weasley smiled. "It's going to be absolutely terrifyingly exciting—I'm very glad they've changed the rules.

"_WHAT_ _RULES_!!" But the Hogwarts Express was moving now, chugging great plumes of dark smoke, the pistons hissing. Mrs Weasley, Bill, and Charlie just waved, grinning, and before they had rounded the corner out of the station, all three of them had Disapparated.

* * *

"Hey…I've got to go to the Prefects compartment," Cedric said quietly, glancing down at Harriet. "I'll see you later?" Harriet nodded, and her stomach went all flippity-floppety when Cedric put his arms around her and hugged her, before making his way down the train without tripping over the first years. Hermes pointedly did not meet Harriet's eye, but she noticed him smirking, and Harriet flushed as she followed him and Rhona into their compartment.

"Mr Bagman wanted to tell us!" Rhona fumed, dropping into her seat in their compartment, oblivious to Harriet having swooned. She opened her trunk, pulled out the aged lace dress robes and flung them over Pigwidgeon's cage to shut him up. "My own _mother_ won't tell us! Wonder what—"

Harriet heard a familiar drawling voice as Hermes pointed to the compartment next to theirs; someone had left the door open a sliver.

"…Father actually considered sending _me_ to Durmstrang, you know, only Mother didn't like the idea of me being so far away from home," said Draco Malfoy. "Father knows the headmaster, you see, and Durmstrang doesn't allow the riffraff Dumbledore does into the school. Father says Durmstrang take a far more useful line than Hogwarts with regards to the Dark Arts—they actually _learn_ them, not just the Defence rubbish _we_ do…"

"He thinks he'd've lasted five minutes in Durmstrang, does he?" Hermes said crisply, sliding the door closed. "I wish he _had_ gone, it would've saved us a great deal of trouble."

"Is Durmstrang another Wizarding school, then?" Harriet asked.

"Yes," Hermes said, his nostrils white. "And it's got a horrendous reputation. Like Malfoy said—in _An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe_, the teachers are notorious for putting a lot of emphasis on _teaching_ the Dark Arts."

"I think I've heard of it," Rhona frowned, un-sticking two Fudge Flies from the little bag she'd saved for the journey. "Where is it, what country?"

"No-one knows, do they?" Hermes sighed, taking out _Hogwarts: A History_ again.

"Er—do they not?" Harriet asked.

"Well, there's traditionally been a lot of rivalry between the magical schools in Europe," Hermes explained. "Hogwarts is by far the eldest institution, and most wizards know how to find it, if they can get to Hogsmeade—but most other schools conceal their whereabouts, to protect their school's secrets."

"How do you hide a dirty great castle?" Rhona laughed. "Durmstrang's got to the same size as Hogwarts!"

"Hogwarts _is _hidden!" Hermes said, rolling his eyes. "Everyone knows that…well, everyone who's read…" He raised _Hogwarts: A History_.

"Just you then," Rhona said tartly, offering Fudge Flies to Harriet.

"How _do_ you hide a place like Hogwarts?" Harriet asked interestedly. She'd been wondering about Diagon Alley—accessible only to wizards who knew which bricks to tap in the yard of the Leaky Cauldron.

"Well, it's got all kinds of bewitchments and enchantments on it," Hermes said authoritatively. "If a Muggle happens to get that far north, all they'll see when they see Hogwarts is a great shambling ruin, with a sign over the gate that says, 'Danger, Unsafe: Do Not Enter.' But I think maybe Durmstrang would have a lot of anti-Muggle precautions, like the World Cup, because of their standing on Muggles; they'd likely not want to let Muggles get even close enough to mistake it for a ruin. But I'm thinking Durmstrang must be somewhere in the far north, because they've got fur cloaks on their uniform list."

"Ooh, I like the sound of that," Harriet grinned. "Fur cloaks. You'd be snugly all the time!"

"Think of the possibilities," Rhona said dreamily, gazing into space with misty eyes. "It would've been so easy to push Malfoy off a glacier, and say it was an accident…"

"It's a shame his mother likes him," Harriet agreed, and they had a lot of fun until the lunch-trolley arrived, describing tactics for getting Malfoy onto the glacier in the first place. Harriet left the compartment abruptly when Hermes suggested all _she'd_ have to do would be to kiss him. This led to him telling Rhona about Malfoy's reaction to her being glasses-free in the Top Box, which Harriet hadn't noticed _he'd_ noticed, along with Cedric. This sent Rhona into a fit of hysterical giggles on the floor of their compartment and Harriet was very flushed about the cheeks when she bought a stack of Pumpkin Pasties and Butterbeers for them for lunch.

* * *

Several of their friends looked into their compartment—Dean Thomas, who grinned at Harriet, and Seamus, who was still wearing his Irish rosette, and Norah Longbottom, a pretty, smiling, round-faced girl with the memory of a leaky cauldron: after fifteen minutes of continuous Quidditch talk, Hermes buried himself in _Hogwarts: A History_, got bored of that and went on to _Standard Book of Spells, Grade Four_, trying to learn a Summoning Charm on the Chocolate Frog cards that both Harriet and Rhona already had in their collections. Norah's face shone with excitement and jealousy as they described the Quidditch World Cup, and Rhona pulled out her Viktoria Krum figurine. "_Wow_."

"We saw her right up close, didn't we Harriet—she got pictures," Rhona grinned, beaming fondly at Krum, who was glowering at Seamus' rosette.

"Oh yeah!" Harriet blurted. "I wonder where Colin Creevey is." She frowned and glanced into the corridor: She was set on asking Colin Creevey to teach her how to develop her negatives and print her photographs the wizard way—so the pictures moved.

"Gran didn't want to go," Norah sighed wistfully. "She wouldn't buy tickets."

"Next time," Harriet grinned, showing Norah her signed Ireland National Team poster, "we'll all go, a big group of us."

"Yeah, that's if Harriet isn't _playing_," Rhona laughed, and the others asked what she was talking about. "Thinking about it, aren't you, Harriet? Playing professionally? Charlie says you could play for anyone you wanted, as long as you played your cards right."

"Where were you girls sitting?" Seamus asked, grinning. "Me mam got us tickets right behind the Irish goalposts."

"We were in the Top Box," Rhona said, squirming with delight.

"For the first and last time in your life, Weaslette," Malfoy drawled, and he and his two cronies flanked the door. Harriet rolled her eyes.

"Hullo Malfoy," she said tartly. "Don't remember inviting you in." Malfoy shot her an insolent glare; she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch as she held his icy gaze with her eyebrows raised.

"Weasley," Malfoy sighed, raking his eyes over the compartment, and smirking exultantly when he noticed Rhona's dress robes, flung over Pigwidgeon's cage, "what is _that_?"

"Leave it—" Too late, Rhona made a grab for her dress robes; Malfoy was quicker, and gave the arm of the dress robes a great tug, holding them up for everybody to see.

"Weasley, you weren't seriously thinking of _wearing_ this!" Malfoy sneered ecstatically. "I mean…they were very fashionable—in my _great-grandmother's_ time."

Rhona told Malfoy to do something Harriet knew she would never have dared in front of her mother—Malfoy smirked luxuriously and Crabbe and Goyle guffawed stupidly. Malfoy tutted disapprovingly.

"_So_," he drawled, "are you going to enter, Weasley?"

"Enter what?"

"Going to try and bring a bit of glory to the family name? There's a lot of money involved, too…you'd be able to afford some halfway decent dress robes if you won," Malfoy drawled, leaning casually in the doorway. He flicked his eyes over Harriet. "I suppose _you_ will, Potter—you never miss a chance to show off, do you?" Harriet raised her eyebrows.

"I never miss a chance to hand your arse to you," she corrected tartly, and Seamus and Dean both snickered. They remembered Rhona's description of what happened in the forest after the Death Eaters started marching around the campsite. Malfoy's cheeks coloured the palest pink, and his eyes grew malicious.

"Ah…Yes, well, while we're on that subject," Malfoy said, drawing his wand slowly from inside his robes. _BANG_.

Malfoy's screams were unheard, as the compartment had erupted with laughter; Rhona stood victorious over Malfoy, with her wand-arm outstretched, a grin plastered across her face, as Malfoy screamed and ran out of the compartment, his face covered with Bat-Bogies.

"That felt _good_," Rhona grinned, settling down in her seat. She and Harriet slapped palms so hard Harriet's hand stung, but she was grinning from ear to ear.

* * *

Soon enough, the Hogwarts Express slowed with squeals of the pistons and brakes, and at last they stopped in Hogsmeade Station: rain was still lashing against the windows, and as they clambered out of the train, robes raised over their heads, lightening illuminated the vicious sky. Buckets of ice-cold water splashed over their heads every other second, dousing them, soaking them through within seconds; Harriet shivered violently, arm-in-arm with Rhona, who had a better view over the crowd to see where they were going. Harriet didn't need to be tall to see the enormous silhouette outlined at the other end of the platform by a soft, dull amber lamp.

"HI HAGRID!!!" she shouted, and Hagrid waved a dustbin-lid-sized hand.

"See yeh at the feast, if we don' drown!" Hagrid shouted back. "Firs' years, this way."

"Oh, I _am_ glad we're not taking the boats over," Hermes said, shivering. Jostled and shoved by the crowd, eventually Harriet, Rhona, Hermes and Norah managed to grab a carriage, breathing great sighs of relief when they were sheltered from the rain. Hair and robes sodden, they all sat shivering, until Hermes pulled out his wand and conjured a handful of bluebell flames, the same flames Cedric had conjured in the clearing that night. With a lurch, the carriages set off along the trail up to the castle, splashing loudly in the great puddles in the dirt track.

Harriet gazed out of the window, hoping to see anything, as the carriage lurched up the path. She caught a glimmer of candle-lit windows and grinned to herself. Yes, it was still there. She was home.

* * *

**A.N.**: Since I axed Ginny—which I justify passionately because Ginny is only Harry's wife in the Epilogue because she's redheaded like Harry's mum was!—I've decided to kind of incorporate the characters of Ron and Ginny together.

* * *


	16. The Triwizard Tournament

**A.N.**: I have a few 'thank-you' notes to say; to _ErikArden_, _Lady Rosalee_, and _larkagurl2_, and lastly _123me321you_ for your reviews! I'll update a few more chapters (as I have a backlog of about fifteen more!) because I'm really enjoying writing this!

* * *

**The Triwizard Tournament**

* * *

They made a mad dash for the Entrance Hall, doused again with sheets of icy water, into the Entrance Hall with its magnificent marble staircase and its dozen corridors and passageways leading off it, and the wide open Great Hall doors from whence emitted the excited chatter of a thousand students waiting for the Welcoming Feast to begin. Evidence of exploded water balloons greeted them, and they slipped and slid across the marble floor into the Great Hall, which was much warmer, and filled with the golden light of hundreds and hundreds of candles burning in midair above the four House tables and the staff-table, each of them set with hundreds of golden plates and goblets. The Hall was decorated for the Start of Term feast with banners of the Houses and since they had managed to catch an earlier carriage, Harriet, Rhona, Hermes and Norah made their way up the Hall towards the staff table.

It was always best to get a seat closer to Dumbledore at any of these feasts, for he always had something important to say.

Something happened then that Harriet almost didn't catch—something enormous, black, furry, with gleaming pale eyes, came haring down from the staff table, fleshy pink tongue wagging—until she was thrown to the floor by the sheer force of a bear butting against her. The bear or whatever it was kept licking her face madly, barking happily. _Barking_! _Bear-like…barking_.

Her eyes flew open and she struggled to sit up, staring. "Padfoot!!" she whispered, her eyes growing wide. She recognised the pale, glowing eyes. Padfoot's fur was no longer shaggy and matted—he had been meticulously groomed, his fur had been trimmed and washed so it shone like satin; he was still very skinny, but he looked better than he had when he'd dragged Rhona into the Shrieking Shack as a dog in June, and around his neck he wore—

"A collar?" Harriet laughed softly, as Padfoot licked her face, his tail wagging manically. Hermes and Rhona were laughing softly; Norah was pale, anxious, afraid Harriet had been mauled. Harriet tugged the red leather collar around and fumbled with the little gold tag.

"_Toby_, really?" she gave a long, rumbling laugh, fixing Sirius with an amused look. He barked happily, and the grin on Padfoot's face was only too evident. She flipped the tag over and scoffed amusedly. "'If found, please return to Albus Dumbledore'."

"Hey, Harriet, wicked dog!" Seamus grinned, falling into a seat beside Dean at the table. Padfoot barked happily, and Harriet clambered onto the bench beside Rhona.

"He's Professor Dumbledore's," Harriet grinned, as Rhona reached to give 'Toby' a vigorous pat. Because of Sirius, who had run around the end of the Gryffindor table to go and see Hermes, and let him shake his paw, Harriet got a lot of attention from surrounding students; as they waited for everyone else to file in from the carriages, many of the students came over to pat Sirius and scratch him behind the ears.

"He's very well-behaved, isn't he," said Lavender Brown, who had stopped dead at the sight of Sirius sitting on taut forelegs next to Harriet, (the Grim of the previous year was obviously not forgotten by Lavender or Parvati) and seemed very wary of Sirius until he gently touched his nose to the palm of her hand and gave her a grin.

"I always thought of Professor Dumbledore as a cat person," Parvati said, smiling at Sirius and scratching him behind his ears. He wagged his tail and barked happily when she kissed the top of his head. He was basking in the attention—and probably the human contact—granted by him being in Hogwarts.

"Tart," Harriet said to him; he lifted his nose in the air, looked away from her, and folded his front paws in a way that was very gentlemanly.

"Hiya! Harriet!" A familiar, breathless, excited voice called down the table, and Harriet glanced up, smiling at Colin Creevey. "Guess what, Harriet, guess what? My brother's starting! My brother Dennis!"

Harriet grinned. "Cool!" She knew every photograph Colin ever took eventually managed to find its way to his younger brother. Harriet, whom Colin almost idolised, was one of his favourite subjects to photograph.

"He's really excited!" Colin grinned. How anybody could fit more excitement into their bodies than little Colin Creevey could, Harriet didn't know. He was always bubbling over. Colin was practically jumping in his seat. "I just hope he's in Gryffindor! Keep your fingers crossed, eh, Harriet?" Harriet grinned and raised her hands, crossing her fingers for him. Colin looked so excited he almost fell off his bench.

"Brothers and sisters usually end up in the same House, don't they?" Harriet asked. She was going by the Weasleys—every single one of them had been in Gryffindor. Sirius snorted softly: they saw him shake his head pointedly.

"Not necessarily," Hermes said. "Parvati Patil's twin is in Ravenclaw, isn't she—and they're identical."

"Did _you_ have a sibling in a different house, then?" Rhona asked Padfoot, who nodded. Harriet raised her eyebrows.

"You have siblings?" Padfoot shook his head, looking down.

"Did they _die_, or something?" Rhona asked, a little insensitively. Hermes tutted. Padfoot nodded.

"Did you have a brother or a sister?" Harriet asked interestedly. She realised she didn't know anything about Sirius as anybody other than her godfather, and the first convict to ever escape Azkaban. She'd never realised he might've left people behind when he was imprisoned, besides her of course. Padfoot stared pointedly at Hermes. "You had a brother? What house was he in?"

Padfoot turned and glanced over his shoulder, staring at the Slytherin table. "_Really_?" Rhona gaped. "How…_disappointing_." Padfoot snorted, as if he agreed, and settled back with his head resting on the bench between them, gazing up fondly at Harriet, who stroked his nose absentmindedly.

"Where's the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher?" Hermes asked, and Harriet glanced up at the staff table. She noticed there were several more empty chairs than usual; Hagrid was still surging across the now-overflowing lake with the first years (Harriet shivered in sympathy for them when another bolt of lightening lit up the horrendous sky) and Professor McGonagall could be heard bellowing at Peeves in the Entrance Hall for letting off the water balloons. Professor Dumbledore stood in pride of place in the very middle seat, his silver beard and hair glittering in the candlelight, his deep-green robes magnificently embroidered with many stars and moons. The tips of his long fingers were touched together, and he was resting his chin upon them, staring up at the ceiling, his half-moon spectacles flashing, as if lost in thought.

"Oh, hurry up," Rhona moaned, massaging her stomach. "I could eat a Hippogriff." Padfoot whined; he agreed, licking his chops. Harriet glanced at Professor Dumbledore, and the realisation of what her being back in Hogwarts meant made her sit up straighter.

"When d'you reckon I'll have my first lesson with him?" Harriet whispered to Rhona, who, frowning in hunger, glanced over at Dumbledore.

"Dunno," she shrugged, too intent on filling her stomach with the magnificent Start of Term feast that was always prepared.

Silence fell, and Harriet glanced down the other end of the Hall: McGonagall had appeared, at the head of a line of absolutely _tiny_ first years.

"We weren't that small, _were we_?" Harriet whispered, stunned.

"You were," Rhona remarked, smirking. Harriet gave her a dark look. All of the first years were shivering violently with a combination of fear, anticipation, and cold: the littlest one by far looked almost painfully excited; he was draped in what Harriet recognised as Hagrid's moleskin overcoat, but it was so big on the boy that it looked as if he'd tried to dress up in a furry black circus tent, his small face (a face that bore an absolutely remarkable resemblance to his brother's) protruding from the collar. He caught Colin's eye as he stood with his frightened-looking peers and grinned, holding two thumbs-up, mouthing, "I fell in the lake!" and looking positively delighted by that.

"Titchy little things, aren't they," Rhona smirked; she was second-tallest in their year only to Dean Thomas. "Even you could bully them!" Harriet tutted, rolling her eyes; she wasn't _that_ small: she was bigger than the lower years, at least!

* * *

Professor McGonagall placed the rickety three-legged stool in front of Professor Dumbledore before the staff table, with the extremely ancient wizard's hat, the Sorting Hat, placed atop it. For a moment, nothing happened; all eyes were on the Hat, and then a tear near the brim of the hat opened wide, and the Hat broke into song.

The Great Hall rang with applause when the Sorting Hat finished, but Harriet frowned, applauding along with everyone else.

"It didn't sing that at our Sorting," she said. She had only witnessed her own Sorting; last year, Professor McGonagall had taken her aside to be examined by Madam Pomfrey, after collapsing on the train because of the Dementors of Azkaban; the year before that, she and Rhona had hijacked Mr Weasley's flying Ford Anglia car and crashed it into the Whomping Willow, and had been facing Professor Snape.

"It sings a different one every year," Rhona explained, clapping. "Pretty boring life, isn't it, being a hat? Nothing to do but spend all year writing a new song." Professor McGonagall unrolled a large scroll of parchment, and gave the instructions they had all received at their Sorting.

Tiny Dennis Creevey staggered towards the stool when his name came up, tripping over Hagrid's moleskin overcoat, and Harriet noticed Hagrid (how anyone _couldn't_ notice was always beyond Harriet's comprehension) sidling into the Hall from a side-door. Dennis Creevey jammed the Hat on his head; it obscured his eager face and it took perhaps three seconds for the Hat to open its mouth and shout, "_GRYFFINDOR_!!"

Dennis was so eager to get to his brother that he tripped over Hagrid's coat again, landing painfully in a heap; Padfoot padded down the hall to him, took hold of the back of Dennis' robes and lifted him off the floor, pushing Dennis forward with his muzzle in the small of Dennis' back.

"Colin, I fell in!" Dennis squeaked excitedly, clambering onto the bench beside his brother. "It was _brilliant_! And something in the water grabbed me and pushed me back in the boat!"

"It was probably the giant squid, Dennis!" Colin grinned, applauding his brother. Dennis gazed at his elder-brother in wonder, his eyes wide, as if no-one in their wildest dreams could be pitched into a storm-tossed fathoms-deep lake and have a giant sea-monster rescue them!

"Dennis! Dennis! Do you see that girl down there, the one with the black hair—and the dog? See her? _Know who she is, Dennis_?"

Emma Dobbs was now being Sorted, and Harriet suddenly found one of the patches on the Hat very interesting, her cheeks flushing. Rhona began moaning as soon as they had reached the 'L's, lolloping about and massaging her stomach, cringing with hunger. When Kevin Whitby became the last Hufflepuff (Harriet applauded loudly, because Cedric caught her eye and grinned over at her from the Hufflepuff table) Rhona seized her knife and fork, staring at her golden plate expectantly; Hermes rolled his eyes. When Kevin Whitby had sat down, Professor Dumbledore stood, and such was the level of respect with which every student regarded him that the Hall fell silent instantly, in anticipation. He spread his arms wide in welcome, his smile very warm.

"I have only two words to say to you," he said, his deep voice echoing into every nook and cranny of the Hall. "_Tuck_ _in_." Harriet and Rhona in particular applauded loudly at this announcement, and the tables were suddenly groaning with food. Harriet helped herself to everything within reach, and shouted indignantly when Sirius nipped up and stole her steak, making a noise that might have been a giggle in dog-language.

"You cheeky little beggar!" she said indignantly, narrowing her eyes at him as he devoured the juicy, seasoned steak. She helped herself to oven-cooked sausages and mash and fresh runner-beans with melted butter, and Rhona was already groaning in a satisfied sort of way, halfway through her roast-potatoes.

"You're lucky there's a feast at all this evening," Nearly-Headless Nick said gloomily, watching Rhona devour a pork-chop with relish. "There was trouble in the kitchens."

"Why?" Harriet asked, flicking Sirius' nose when he got dangerously close to her sausages. He licked his chops and Rhona, taking heart on him, took a golden plate and filled it with sausages, roast potatoes and a bit of gravy and set it on the floor for him.

"Peeves," Nearly-Headless Nick said, as if this explanation was enough, which it was. "He wanted to come to the Feast, you see—but as he can't see a plate of food without throwing it…He wreaked havoc and mayhem in the kitchens, pots and pans everywhere, the place swimming with soup—he terrified the life out of the house-elves." _CLANG_.

Harriet, who had been ladling herself some stilton-and-broccoli soup (her favourite) from the steaming tureen by Seamus, almost sloshed soup everywhere; Hermes had upset the jug of pumpkin juice, and only quick wandwork from a seventh-year prevented it soaking them all further.

"There are house-elves _here_, at _Hogwarts_?"

"Of course—the largest number in any dwelling in Britain, I think," Sir Nicholas said unconcernedly, frowning at Hermes because of his reaction. "Over a hundred." Hermes stared at him, his expression utterly horrified.

"I've never seen one," he said wonderingly.

"Well, you're not supposed to, are you," Sir Nicholas said, as if this was obvious. "That's the mark of a good house-elf. They only come out of the kitchens at night to do a spot of cleaning and tend to the fires… You're not supposed to know they're there."

"But…but they get _paid_, don't they—they get sick-leave and holidays and benefits and…_everything_?" Hermes said. Nearly-Headless Nick was so amused by this that his ruff slipped and his head lolled onto his shoulder on the threads of silvery sinew and flesh that hadn't been severed upon his beheading.

"House-elves don't _want_ payment and sick-leave!" he chuckled amusedly. Harriet imagined that if he was alive, his cheeks would be flushed with amusement. Hermes glanced down at her plate of food, which he'd hardly begun to tuck into, set his knife and fork down neatly, and sat with his arms crossed.

"Oh, c'mon, 'Er-Meez," Rhona said, laughing, swallowing heavily. "You won't get anybody sick-leave by starving yourself."

"_Slave labour_ made this meal!" Hermes said passionately, his lips going white with anger. He refused to eat another bite—even though Sirius wolfed down his sausages and roast potatoes guiltlessly, licking his chops happily as Harriet finished her first course and her soup, and when the puddings appeared, Rhona took it upon herself to taunt Hermes.

"Treacle sponge, Hermes," she said, wafting its aroma towards her. "Spotted dick, chocolate gateau, Pavlova! _Profiteroles_!" Padfoot ate his way through a huge serving of blackberry-and-apple pie, which Harriet also made her way through, and the spotted dick with a ton of custard, a bowl of ice-cream. Hermes gave Rhona a look so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that Rhona desisted and instead focused on demolishing a steamed syrup sponge with Dean and Harriet. When the remnants of pudding melted from the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Professor Dumbledore rose again.

Harriet, feeling very warm, very full, and very contented, stroked Sirius' glossy ears and smiled blandly over at the headmaster. Only the howling wind, somehow far away now that she was so warm and sleepy, could be heard; the students had fallen silent.

"So! Now that we are all fed and watered," he beamed, and Hermes scoffed, looking angry, "I must ask for your attention once more, while I give out a few notices.

"Mr Filch has asked me to tell you that the list of objects forbidden inside this castle has been extended to include Screaming Yo-yos, Fanged Frisbees and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, and is available for viewing in Mr Filch's office, should anybody care to check it."

Padfoot snorted. Professor Dumbledore's lips twitched.

"As ever, I would like to remind you all that the Forest in the grounds is out-of-bounds to _all_ students," his eyes lingered for a moment on Harriet and Rhona, who exchanged a grin, "as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.

"It is also my painful duty to inform you that the inter-house Quidditch tournament this year will not take place—"

"_WHAT_!!!" Harriet yelped in a high-pitched shriek, her jaw dropping as she gazed, appalled, at Dumbledore. A few people laughed at her reaction but most, like the Weasley twins, who were so horrified they couldn't bring themselves to speak, only mouth wordlessly at Dumbledore, shared her feelings. Dumbledore continued.

"This is due to an event that will be starting in October and continuing throughout the rest of the school year," he said, as the tide of indignant shouts ebbed, "taking up much of the teachers' time and energy—but I am sure you will all enjoy immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts—"

The ceiling rumbled with a deafening growl of thunder, and the doors to the Entrance Hall banged open: A man, such as the like nobody in the Hall had ever seen, came into to the Hall, shrouded in a long black travelling cloak, leaning heavily on a long, knobbly staff. Lowering his hood, he revealed shaggy, grizzled dark-grey hair and began to walk up the House tables to the staff table. With every other step he took, a dull _clunk_ echoed. A flash of lightening illuminated the Hall and Harriet gaped; it had illuminated his face. It looked as if it had been carved out of weather-beaten wood, chiselled and honed to an almost grotesque standard, full of deep scars, a large chunk missing out of his nose; Harriet was reminded of the orcs in Daisy's _Lord of the Rings_ films. The mouth was a diagonal gash. But his eyes—if Harriet's eyes were striking, they were nothing to the chilled feeling _his_ eyes inspired.

They were mismatched; one was dark and beady, the other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid electric blue. The blue eye moved ceaselessly, without blinking, up, down, side to side, independent of the normal eye; it rolled right over, pointing into the back of his head, showing only the white of his eye.

"…May I introduce our new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher," Professor Dumbledore said brightly, and Harriet took her gaping face off the mutilated wizard and stared at the headmaster, "Professor Moody." Only Hagrid and Professor Dumbledore applauded his arrival; everybody else was too shocked by his sudden appearance.

"Moody?" Harriet whispered, tugging on Rhona's sleeve. "_Mad-Eye_ Moody? The one Mr Diggory was telling your dad about? The one with the exploding dustbins?"

"Must be," Rhona whispered.

"What happened to him?" Hermes breathed, looking faintly ill. "What happened to his _face_?" Harriet couldn't stop staring at him, feeling guilty doing it, but she just couldn't look away!

"As I was saying," Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat, "we are to have the very great honour of hosting a very exciting event over the next few months, an event which has not taken place for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you all that this year at Hogwarts, the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place."

"You're JOKING!!!" Fred shouted, and the petrified spell that bound the students to staring at Moody broke; they laughed, the tension ebbing away.

"I am _not_ joking, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore chuckled. "Though, now that you mention it, I did hear a rather splendid one about a troll, a hag and a leprechaun who all enter a bar—" Professor McGonagall cleared her throat. "But…perhaps this is not the time…no. Where was I? Ah—the Triwizard Tournament…Some of you, I think, will already know what the Triwizard Tournament is, but I hope for the sake of those who do not, you will not mind me elaborating.

"The Triwizard Tournament was established seven hundred years ago, as a competition between the three largest and oldest schools of wizardry in Europe—Hogwarts, being the eldest, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons, as a splendid method of establishing strong ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities. A champion, selected from each of the schools, competes in three magical tasks. The schools took turns hosting the Tournament every five years—until the death toll rose so high that the Tournament was discontinued."

"_Death…toll_," Hermes spluttered, staring at Dumbledore.

"There have been many attempts over the years to reinstate the Tournament," Professor Dumbledore continued, over the excited chatter of students who did not share Hermes' worries. "Though none so far have been successful. However, our own magnificent Departments of Magical Co-Operation and Magical Games and Sports have decided it is time to have another go at it. We have all been working extremely hard over the summer, to make sure no young witch or wizard finds themselves in mortal danger."

"Oh, yeah, I'm definitely going out for that one," Harriet said sardonically, shaking her head. Rhona looked very excited though, and was gazing at Dumbledore with the strictest concentration. "The Heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving on the thirtieth of October with their short-listed contenders, and the final selection of the three champions shall be made on Halloween. An impartial judge shall decide which students are worthiest to compete for the Triwizard Cup, the glory for their school, and a thousand galleons personal prize money."

"A—"

"_Thousand_—"

"_Galleons_!" Rhona looked like she might choke.

"I'm going for it," Fred hissed, his and George's faces both glowing with enthusiasm. At every House table, Harriet saw students putting their heads together, whispering the same exact thing Fred had.

But Harriet, glancing at Sirius, bit her lip, thinking. For the past three years in a row, someone had been out to murder her (or believed to be) and this year, she would be taking private lessons with Professor Dumbledore. She was nearing her O.W.L.s and she had never been the most dedicated student to begin with. Plus…it would be nice, to sit back and watch someone else risking their necks.

"Eager though I know all of you will be, no doubt to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts," he said, smiling softly as if he knew it wasn't the Cup or school glory but the _thousand_ galleons prize money that tempted so many, "strict Ministry guidelines, and the Heads of participating schools, have ensured that age-restrictions will be imposed on all prospective contenders. Only students who are of age—that is to say, seventeen years old or over by the thirtieth of October—may put their names in for consideration. Given the Tournament tasks will be extremely difficult, not to mention dangerous no matter the rigorous precautions that have been put in place, it is highly doubtful whether any student below sixth year will be able to cope with the demands of each individual task. _I_ will personally be ensuring no underage wizard attempts to put their name in for consideration." Fred and George looked so mutinous Harriet didn't doubt murder was on their minds.

"I hope that, when the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang arrive, you will extend every courtesy to make our guests welcome, and give your support whole-heartedly to the Hogwarts champion who is selected to represent our fine school."

"Wonder who it'll be," Harriet whispered, though she had a sudden vision of _Cedric_, of all people, grinning with a gold cup in his hand…maybe that was because he was beaming over at the Hufflepuff table and had caught her eye.

"Now, it is late, and I know how important it is for you all to be alert and awake for your lessons in the morning, so now, bedtime. Goodnight."

"They cant _do that_!" George exclaimed indignantly, standing and glaring at Dumbledore. "We're seventeen in April, why can't we have a go?"

"They're not stopping _me_ entering," Fred declared. "The champions will get to do all sorts of stuff you'd never be allowed to do normally—"

"When's that ever stopped you?" Harriet asked, laughing.

"But a _thousand galleons_ prize money," George sighed longingly.

"Yeah—imagine how many Ton-Tongue Toffees you could make with that," Harriet smiled. Clambering out of her seat, Harriet felt Sirius' warm, moist nose against her palm and saw his tail wagging, ready to leave.

"Aren't you supposed to stay with Dumbledore?" Harriet asked. Padfoot shook his head and pointed his muzzle at her. She followed him down the tables into the Entrance Hall, which was swarming with students. Padfoot salvaged tiny Dennis Creevey from being stampeded by a hoard of Slytherin fifth years and they started walking up the marble staircase, merging away from the Ravenclaws.

"People have died, though," Hermes said quietly, walking through a door concealed by a tapestry, starting up a narrower staircase.

"What's worth having if there's no risk getting it?" Fred asked. "What about you, Rhona, you going to enter?"

"It'd be cool to enter…they might want someone older, though, we probably haven't learnt enough," Rhona said wistfully.

"What about you, Harriet?" George asked eagerly. "You'll enter, won't you, if we figure out how to get past that impartial judge?"

"I don't think so," Harriet chuckled softly, as Sirius hopped the trick step that Norah, lagging behind and bemoaning her poor memory, and how her grandmother would probably like her to enter the Tournament to Hermes, forgot.

"You, _you_, Harriet Potter," Fred gaped, "you, the chief rule-breaker, the defeater of Dark Wizards, _you're not going to enter_ this little competition!"

"Hey, I've had dark wizards out to get me for the last three years," Harriet shrugged. Sirius snorted; she gave him an apologetic glance. "It'll be nice to lie back and see someone else get all the attention for once." Sirius barked softly, as if he agreed.

"Yeah, but, come _on_," George grinned. "You've done a ton of stuff like the things they'll have in the tasks—you've defeated You-Know-Who twice, _inside_ Hogwarts, haven't you."

"I had help for that, though," Harriet said, grabbing hold of Norah's arm and heaving her out of the trick step.

"How do you think the impartial judge chooses, though?" Hermes asked thoughtfully. "There must be over three hundred students from Hogwarts alone who'll be seventeen by October. I wonder what makes a champion."

"Must be stuff like what the Founders valued," Harriet suggested. "You know—bravery, honour, resourcefulness, intelligence."

"That knocks you out of the running then, Rhona," Fred said, banging down the visor of the suit of armour that had laughed at Norah for forgetting the trick step.

* * *

The Fat Lady, beautifully restored last year after her attack by Sirius (who had only been trying to save Harriet's life) sat in her pink silk dress and smiled blithely as they approached. "Password?"

"Balderdash," George said flatly. "A prefect told me."

They clambered into through the portrait hole, into the common room. A fire burned in the grate, the fireplace large enough for them to walk into, sending warmth and light over the circular room, crackling merrily. Hermes glowered at the fire, and Harriet swore she heard him mutter "_slave_ _labour_" before he headed up to the boys' dormitory. Sirius sat waiting at the foot of the girls' staircase; he barked softly, and when they joined him, he went pelting up the stairs.

"He's not sleeping upstairs with us, is he?" Rhona asked, her eyes widening. Harriet shrugged and followed Sirius' tail.

Five large, comfortable four-poster beds with crimson hangings and gold details stood in the circular dormitory, but unlike Hermes' dormitory, they had a long, low dresser that they each had a drawer in, with an enormous mirror propped up on it, and a lovely antique dressing-table, a full-length mirror, and they each had their own single-door wardrobes, bedside cabinets and their trunks were already set up at the foot of their beds. Parvati and Lavender were already upstairs; Lavender was setting up photographs on her bedside cabinet—Harriet noticed in one she was holding a new baby rabbit (Binky had been replaced)—and Parvati was hanging her robes in the wardrobe. They paid not the slightest attention to Padfoot, who sat next to Harriet's trunk, staring at the door, waiting for her. His tail wagged when she entered the bedroom, and Harriet smiled as she went over to him.

Her pyjamas had already been folded underneath her pillow, and Padfoot hopped onto her bed and curled up at the foot of it, hiding his face under his paws as the girls got ready for bed: she tugged her pyjamas on, ran a brush through her hair, took her contact-lenses out in front of the little mirror above her bedside cabinet, and climbed into bed. Rhona was pinning her Irish rosette to the hangings behind her headboard. Someone—probably a house-elf—had put a warming-pan between Harriet's sheets, and with Padfoot curled up by her feet, it was very warm and comfortable, cloistered in her little bed while the storm raged outside.

It would be _nice_, she thought, smiling to herself in the darkness, with Padfoot breathing softly, Norah snoring gently, and the rain pattering against the windows, to be chosen as a champion. To be recognised on that level as someone who wasn't just a famous face, but had earned the right to have people admire her. She clamped her eyes shut, saw herself (taller, prettier, without her cumbersome scar) beaming, holding the Triwizard Cup (which took the form of the Quidditch World Cup) high in the air, the entire school screaming and applauding their approval…Cedric's grin as he cheered for her made her feel all warm and glowing inside…

She was exceptionally glad that Sirius couldn't read minds.

* * *

**A.N.**: I know this chapter was pretty much exactly like canon, but I did change how Harry had wanted to go for the Triwizard Tournament, to making it so Harriet _didn't_.

* * *


	17. Padfoot Returns

**A.N.**: This chapter takes place about two hours after the last one!

* * *

**Padfoot Returns**

* * *

Harriet was having a very strange dream. It was raining—but only her face was getting wet, as if—

"Urgh! Sirius! Yuck!" she yelped, sitting bolt upright and grabbing hold of the crimson hanging to wipe her face of dog slobber. Sirius gave her a small, gruff little bark, and she fumbled around in the pitch darkness for the divide in the curtains. She tugged them back and secured one with the gold tassel, groping around in the darkness for her glasses on her nightstand. She grabbed her wand, lit it, and glowered groggily.

"If you think I'm going to let you out, you've got another thing coming," Harriet grumbled, eyeing the wizard clock Rhona had bought her a while ago—it was a medium-sized glass orb, inside which were suspended in mid-air twelve golden hands and several tiny glowing planets that circumnavigated the hands. It was a wizard clock, and it had taken Harriet a month to get the hang of telling time by it. It was midnight.

"Hardly," a hoarse, unused voice said quietly, and Harriet felt a jolt, her sleep-heavy eyes flew open, and a slow grin crept across her face.

Her godfather sat cross-legged at the end of the bed. He looked completely different from the last time she had seen him: his hair was cut short—very short, considering the last time she had seen him, his hair had been elbow-length—and it was well cared for, shining like black satin in the light of Harriet's wand, and the little fireplace by the dressing-table. His face was fuller, less skeletal as it had been when they first met; he looked as if he had had a few good square meals and he fit his brand-new robes well, no longer just skin and grief. His eyes, always the most _alive_-looking part of him, gleamed in the wand-light.

"_Sirius_!" she breathed, and threw herself to the end of the bed, into Sirius' waiting arms. He chuckled softly, careful not to wake the other girls. She hugged her godfather hard, her arms slung round his neck, and Sirius seemed less-willing to part with her than she was. As much as she had dreaded him coming back…it was lovely to have him so close. His hands on her waist, Harriet leaned back, sitting down cross-legged and gazing with a kind of half-dazed grin at her godfather.

"I…How are you _up here_?" Harriet asked wonderingly. The twins had once attempted to run up to Rhona; the girls' staircase had let out a klaxon-like wail and the steps had smoothed into a chute. It was fun to slide down, but it didn't half leave the seat of their robes in a tatter, and if you were caught off-guard you could end up with sprained ankles.

"The _stairs_ are enchanted," Sirius said, grinning in a way that Harriet had never seen before—he looked _handsome_, the kind of handsome he had been in the photograph of her parents' wedding, when he had been their best-man.

"But not the dormitories," Harriet guessed softly. Sirius nodded. "How do you know that?" Sirius smirked luxuriously, winking. "Oh." He had snuck into the girls' dormitories before, either for Marauder business or…or _personal_ business! Harriet didn't like to think about it.

"So," Sirius sighed heavily, reaching inside his new robes (deep burgundy-red, embroidered with dark, burning gold), and pulled out an envelope Harriet recognised by the broken seal to be her own stationery, waving it tauntingly. "A valiant effort, I'll give you that."

"Sirius…it's _dangerous_," Harriet whispered, taking his hand. He gave her a very affectionate look, his eyes glittering.

"And you think that could stop me coming to protect you?" he smiled softly.

"I don't want you going back to Azkaban because of me," Harriet whispered, putting as much conviction into her voice as she could muster.

"I won't," Sirius smiled. "Not a soul except you, Rhona, Hermes and Professor Dumbledore knows about Padfoot. Nobody will know I'm here. Now, if you've finished fruitlessly trying to convince me to run away again, we'll go on to more important matters."

"It _is_ important if you get your soul sucked out!" Harriet hissed indignantly. Norah snuffled in her sleep and Parvati rolled over, mumbling softly. Sirius rolled his eyes.

"So stubborn!" he tutted, but he was grinning. "Just like James—Harriet, I will only turn back into myself when I am alone, or assured of our privacy, I will promise you that. It's an easy life, you know, being a dog."

"Especially when you're stealing other people's steak," Harriet mumbled, and Sirius chuckled softly.

"You see my point," Sirius grinned. "Now…Your dream." Harriet glanced up, surprised. She hadn't even mentioned it to him in her letter. _Dumbledore_, a small voice said, as if she should have guessed. Harriet heaved a massive sigh and told him everything she could remember.

"And…then after the World Cup," she whispered, licking her lips; Sirius flicked her wand and the water carafe on the dresser tipped a measure of water out into a glass, which hovered over to her. She gulped it down. "The wizards Mr Weasley called Death Eaters were tormenting Muggles, and the Dark Mark appeared—they used _my wand_ to conjure it."

"You weren't hurt, were you?" Sirius asked concernedly, his eyes flicking over her.

"No, I was fine—I mean—well, I got into a fistfight with Draco Malfoy, but that was when we just got into the woods. That was just before I realised my wand was missing," Harriet sighed, running her hands through her hair.

"The Death Eaters haven't been active for years. Not since you—" He gestured at Harriet's scar, which had not been there the last time Sirius had seen her before Azkaban. Harriet wondered vaguely if he hated the sight of it, whether it reminded him of his best-friends' sacrifices. "But…Dumbledore's brought Mad-Eye Moody out of retirement, and that means he knows something's up."

"What's he like, Mad-Eye?" Harriet asked. "Mr Weasley had to go and help him this morning, 'cause he said someone had attacked him."

"Ah, yes," Sirius said, frowning. "We heard about that, too…Well, it's too soon to say anything about _that_ just yet. But if Dumbledore's got Mad-Eye here, and he's planning to take you out of Hogwarts—"

"What?" Harriet gaped, speaking slightly louder than she had been, and she flicked her wand quickly when Norah gave a great sputtering snore; in the sudden darkness, they waited, and soon enough, a few seconds later, Norah's soft snores started again.

"You didn't think Dumbledore wouldn't tell me what he's planning with you," Sirius said quietly, and urgently. He licked his lips and took a gulp of water from the glass Harriet had been holding. "He asked me to come back here to protect you, and a lot of good it'd do if the person who'd organised everything was the one causing me not to do my job!"

"So…so he's taking me out of Hogwarts?" Harriet stared. What could Professor Dumbledore have to teach her that he couldn't teach her inside the school?

"Briefly," Sirius said quietly. "I think it's his hope that your work with him won't interfere with the rest of your lessons. He doesn't want people noticing you're both going off."

"Okay…But how can he be disappearing—what about the Triwizard Tournament?" Harriet asked quietly.

"There it gets tricky," Sirius said. "_There_, I think I know why Dumbledore's asked Mad-Eye to come and teach."

"Why?"

"What do you know about the school, Durmstrang?"

"Er…they have fur capes in their uniform," Harriet winced guiltily. She wasn't exactly the most informed witch in the school, having been raised by Muggles that turned all the lights off on Halloween to prevent Trick or Treat-ers. "And they teach the Dark Arts to the students."

"Do you know anything about the headmaster, Karkaroff?" Sirius asked, and Harriet shook her head. "Well…and you mustn't go about telling people this, it wouldn't do for International Magical Co-Operation, would it—but Karkaroff was a Death Eater, Harriet." Harriet stared.

"And Dumbledore's letting him come to _Hogwarts_?" she said, horrified. She wondered how a Death Eater could become headmaster of a school, in a figure of authority over so many young, impressionable minds. _But then_, she thought, _Malfoy was a school governor, wasn't he? And he's got Fudge's ear_.

"Yes—but I think that's why he's got Mad-Eye here," Sirius said darkly.

"To keep an eye on him?" Harriet guessed, and Sirius nodded. "What did he do?" Sirius licked his lips again.

"He was caught by the Aurors—Mad-Eye brought him in," Sirius said. "He was in Azkaban with me," he added bitterly.

"And they _released_ him?" Harriet stared. "_Why_?"

"Karkaroff made a _deal_ with the Ministry of Magic," Sirius said bitterly, his eyes hardening on a point behind Harriet's ear. "He named names, other Death Eaters who had evaded capture. He put a _lot_ of other people behind bars. He's not very popular in Azkaban, I can tell you. And, like you said, what I've heard about him since I escaped, he's been teaching the Dark Arts to every student who passes through that school, Durmstrang."

"But why would Dumbledore let people like that come here?" Harriet asked. "If he though they'd be a danger to us?"

"Dumbledore always believed in giving people in the second chance," Sirius said, and there was a touch of gratitude in his voice. He wasn't forgetting that evening, three months ago, when Dumbledore had listened to his tale about Wormtail, a tale no one else would have believed. "And we're not all hardwired for evil. I'd wager _plenty_ of those students have no taste for the Dark Arts…but all the same, it's always prudent to have your wits about you, with _any_ unknown wizard.

"Anyway," Sirius sighed, and he passed a hand over his tired face. He was smiling, though, when he lowered his hand again. "Tell me about the match, the rest of your summer."

* * *

It was another hour until Harriet got back under her covers, and 'Toby' Padfoot curled up at her feet: She told him everything, describing the match in minute detail, showed him her souvenirs, told him about seeing Viktoria Krum and meeting the Bulgarian Minister for Magic…she even told him of her little dream of playing professional Quidditch, which he was all for, grinning from ear to ear, telling her that had been one of her father's dreams, too. She had to make him promise not to go and find Draco Malfoy and rip him limb from limb after she told him about the fistfight. He liked the sound of Charlie, laughed at Percy's ambitiousness, looked at her shrewdly whenever she mentioned Cedric. She told him about Narcissa Malfoy arriving at The Burrow.

"She _what?_" Sirius barked, but this time, all of the girls were so deeply asleep that not even Norah made a sound.

"Why's that odd—I mean, more than usual?"

"Cissy…"

"Cissy?"

"She was…_is_, I suppose…she is my cousin." It took Harriet's tired, adrenaline-pumped brain a few seconds to piece together what Sirius had just told her.

"You're _related_ to the _Malfoys_!" she grimaced.

"No, I emancipated myself from my family when I was sixteen," Sirius said, sighing heavily. "I ran away, you know—to your dad's parents' place. I think the last time I ever saw my parents was…my last year of Hogwarts, boarding the Hogwarts Express."

"What was your brother like?" Harriet asked interestedly. Sirius' eyes hardened, and for a second, she thought she'd asked the wrong question.

"He was…well, he was a _much_ better son to my parents," Sirius said contemptuously. "He was…he was a Death Eater." He smiled sadly at the look of incomprehension on Harriet's face. Sirius's own brother was a Death Eater.

"Did he die in Azkaban?" she wondered aloud. Sirius shook his head, and sighed very heavily.

"No," he said slowly. "Regulus died…and I've gathered this much since I've been out…He joined when he was very young, still at school in fact…I heard he got in so far and became disillusioned by what he saw Lord Voldemort was willing to do to get power. He died the same year I was imprisoned, a few months earlier."

All Harriet could think was; _Your poor mother_. She had lost _both_ her sons within months of each other. "They never found his body," Sirius said glumly. "He was…eighteen, yeah, I was twenty-two, so he'd've been eighteen when he died."

"But…how could your brother have been a Death Eater?" Harriet asked softly, frowning. "You…" Sirius gave a short, gruff laugh that might've sounded like a quiet bark of a dog.

"Harriet," he smiled, shaking his head. "I just told you I'm related to the Malfoys. My brother was a Death Eater—my parents _loved him_ for that! My family," he said with a sardonic little smile, "was an ancient legacy of _evil_ wizards. I was the first one in a _long _time to be Sorted into Gryffindor. But I wasn't the first to be disinherited for being what I was—half decent."

"You're more than half-decent," Harriet said indignantly. "Your family disowned you for being in Gryffindor?"

"Oh—No, I never gave them the chance; I ran away before they could do that," Sirius said, shrugging. "I didn't want _that_ legacy tied to me, no thank you—Anyway, it's late—it's nearly two a.m. You'd better get to bed, or Dumbledore'll have my pelt!" Harriet clambered into bed, and by the time she'd found a comfy spot, Padfoot was curled up at her feet, snuffling softly.

* * *

**A.N.**: I thought these two chapters went together quite well, so I thought I'd post them together.

* * *


	18. Amazing Bouncing Ferrets

**A.N.**: Another chappie! _Aiya_-Mikage2002, _Riley_, _potterinu_, and _SlytherclawXHuffledor_, thank you all for your kind reviews :D I've uploaded another few chapters for you!

* * *

**Amazing Bouncing Ferrets**

* * *

Padfoot—or Toby, as the other girls were encouraged to call him—woke Harriet early the next morning. So early that Harriet, completely forgetting herself, pummelled him with her pillow and flopped back onto her bed, still asleep. It wasn't until Padfoot took one corner of her duvet in his mouth and pulled it back, exposing her limbs to the chill tower air that she clambered out of bed, glowering, and shuffled down to the girls' bathrooms to get ready. Rhona, who'd gotten a full night's sleep, was quite chipper, more chipper than she usually was in the mornings, but the prospect of discussing the Triwizard Tournament in greater depth seemed to have brought new life to her. She, Harriet and Hermes were escorted downstairs by Padfoot, who as soon as they were in the Great Hall, went to sit by Fred and George Weasley and Lee Jordan, who were all discussing various tactics of bluffing their way into the Triwizard Tournament. While Padfoot wasn't under their feet, Harriet told Hermes and Rhona about their late-night conversation.

Rhona picked up the third-year course timetables from the stack on the table and made a thoughtful, happy noise. "Outside all morning…that's going to be a buggar when the weather turns, but…Herbology, with the Hufflepuffs, oh, that's not bad—Care of Magical Creatures with—dammit! We're _still_ with the Slytherins!"

"Double-Divination this afternoon," Harriet pouted, feeling very moody. Divination was easily her least-favourite subject. Perhaps it had something to do with Professor Trelawney's propensity to predict Harriet's death every time she stepped foot into the tower-attic classroom.

"You should've given it up like me, shouldn't you," Hermes said smugly. "You could use your time on something _sensible_."

"Why'd I want to do that?" Harriet asked, doling scrambled eggs onto her plate and dousing them with ketchup. "I get free tea from Trelawney." Every lesson, regardless of what unit they were on, insisted they have a teapot and cups at their individual tables, so they could keep track of their tea-leaves.

"Oh, you're _eating_ again, I notice," Rhona smirked, and Hermes gave her a Look.

"There are better ways than starvation to prove a point!" Hermes said, in a dignified voice. Rhona scoffed.

"I have five brothers, Hermes—you can't fool _me_—you were _hungry_. That's why you were so grouchy," Rhona smirked. Breakfasts polished away, they made their way (with Padfoot, who lolloped about, his tongue lolling, tail wagging happily) through the storm-soaked vegetable gardens to the greenhouses.

* * *

"What on _earth _are _those_?" Harriet asked, feeling nauseous by the _sight_ of the things they were supposed to be tending.

"Bubotubers!" Professor Sprout called. They looked more like _slugs_, great overgrown slugs that Kevin from the World Cup campsite would have _loved_! They were sticking out vertically from the soil in large terracotta pots, squirming and glistening, with great blistering pustules all over them. "They need squeezing. You will collect the pus—"

"The _what_?" Seamus asked indignantly, looking as ill as Harriet felt. She was _not_ going to touch _them_. Let alone _squeeze _them! She wasn't going to get whatever was filling those boils all over her.

"The _pus_, Finnigan, the _pus_," Professor Sprout repeated. Harriet felt her stomach go all flippity-floppety, and not in the way it did when she saw Cedric smiling. "Wear your goggles, and your dragon-hide gloves. Undiluted Bubotuber puss does funny things to the skin."

"Oh, and that's supposed to encourage us to touch those sick things!" Harriet said to Rhona, who was looking at the Bubotubers with an expression of mingled horror and nausea. Nobody seemed to want to touch the Bubotubers—until Norah started filling bottles upon bottles of liquid that smelled very strongly of petrol. Emboldened by Norah's daring, the rest of them had a go. Harriet, Rhona and Hermes all had Bubotubers next to each other, so while they popped the pustules, they talked about what Sirius had said, mostly about his Death Eater brother, and that wizard, Karkaroff.

"Oddly satisfying, isn't it," Rhona grimaced, as with a _pop_, one of the pustules on her Bubotuber burst, and liquid spurted into the bottle she had hastily placed to catch it. Harriet couldn't help feeling that she was about to throw up, but she completed her task, and when she exited Greenhouse 3 an hour later, she shivered disgustedly. At the bell, the Gryffindors made their way down to Care of Magical Creatures.

* * *

Hagrid stood with a lot of crates, from which strange scratchy sounds and small explosions emitted; Fang, tethered by Hagrid's great hand, strained against his collar to poke his nose into one of the boxes, whining. But Sirius, who had spent Herbology pelting around the greenhouses and the vegetable-patches like an overexcited sentry guard, poked his nose into one of the boxes and backed away hastily, shaking his head and making a noise of what, when Harriet glanced into the boxes, was definitely disgust.

"Urgh!"

"Hagrid, what _are _they?"

"Blast-Ended Skrewts."

They were some kind of lobster—at least, Harriet thought they might have resembled one if they weren't grey, shell-less, and with legs in the wrong places, slimy, with ends that exploded in sparks and propelled the _things_ forward several inches, as they climbed over each other.

"Yeh'll be _raisin'_ them," Hagrid beamed, as if he was giving them a wonderful treat.

"And why would we _want_ to do that?" It wasn't difficult to guess who that cold drawl came from. But Harriet didn't turn around. For the first time in her life, perhaps, she was actually on the same wavelength as Malfoy. Why would they _want_ to keep this horrible things alive?

* * *

"At least Sirius had a good lesson," Hermes sighed, as Sirius frisked about on the lawn as they walked back up to the castle. They had all decided that Malfoy had probably had the right idea in letting the Skrewts die out—or rather, as Hermes had said, "we should stamp out the lot of them before they start attacking us!" While Harriet, Hermes and Rhona had spent an hour and a half tempting the headless Skrewts with slimy handfuls of grass snake, ant eggs and frog livers, _Sirius_ had spent his time running around with Fang. His happy yelps and barks had echoed through the grounds, and it was funny to watch him haring after Fang around the lake, weaving in and out of the trees of the Forbidden Forest. Lunch was lamb chop and potatoes, and Hermes started wolfing down his food so quickly Harriet thought he'd spent a bit too much time over the summer with the Weasley boys.

"Er—is this the new plan? You're going to make yourself _ill_ to promote elf-rights?" Rhona asked, staring at him, and probably having the same flashbacks to dinner at The Burrow that Harriet was.

"No," Hermes said, swallowing a mouthful of sprouts with a gulp of pumpkin juice. "I want to get to the library."

"_Why_?" both Harriet and Rhona asked, deadpanned.

"We've only _had _two lessons, Hermes," Harriet stared, a little worried about his erratic behaviour.

"Yeah—we haven't even got _homework_," Rhona said, as if Hermes might not have realised this.

"Oh, it's not for school," Hermes said, leaping to his feet and running out of the hall.

* * *

Harriet had to drag herself (and Rhona, who was whining as badly as Sirius because he had to wait at the foot of the silver ladder below Trelawney's classroom) up to the Divination tower when the bell tolled for afternoon lessons. The downside to Divination was Divination: the upside was unlimited tea and very squashy chairs. As ever, the tiny round classroom was stuffed with chintz armchairs and poufs, low round tables with tea-sets; the curtains were closed, the lamps all draped with diaphanous red shawls, the fire permeating the sickly-sweet perfume Harriet knew she would never be able to smell again ever after Divination lessons without being ill. She and Rhona meandered lazily through the already-occupied tables to one in the back of the classroom, obscured from view (Divination always brought upon them a feeling of great lethargy mingled with stupidity). They dumped their bags on the floor and sank into the wonderfully squashy, small armchairs that were perfectly fitted for smaller students, and Harriet tapped their little pink teapot so that steam issued from it (Professor Lupin had taught her how to brew tea and hot-chocolate by magic last year) and poured them both cups.

"Where is she?" Harriet whispered, scanning the classroom, and almost slopped scalding-hot tea over her lap as she cooled it, when Professor Trelawney's dreamy voice echoed gloomily from behind her.

"Good _day_," Professor Trelawney sighed: if Harriet used to wear horrendously thick glasses, she had nothing on Professor Trelawney's outsize specs. Harriet had always got the impression Professor Trelawney was really a humanoid grasshopper with too many necklaces. But Parvati and Lavender greatly admired her, which always led to tension in their dormitory, because Harriet and Rhona hadn't been serious about the subject since their very first lesson.

"_You_ are preoccupied, my dear one," said Professor Trelawney in her misty voice. Harriet thought she probably sat too close to the fumes emanating from her fire. "My Inner Eye can see past your brave face to the troubled soul you conceal within. I regret to tell you that your worries are not entirely baseless. I see trials and tribulations ahead for you my dear, and much suffering…"

"Don't you always," Harriet breathed, and Rhona choked on her tea, hiding her smirk.

"My dears, it is time for us to consider the stars," Professor Trelawney said.

"Don't we do that in Astronomy?" Rhona murmured, rolling her eyes.

"The movements of the planets and the mysterious portents they reveal only to those who understand the steps of the celestial dance…"

"Sounds _saucy_!" Rhona whispered, laughing softly.

"I'm _not_ learning to dance," Harriet sighed, cooling her tea.

"Human destiny may be deciphered by the planetary rays, which intermingle…"

Harriet never paid attention much in Divination. In this lesson, her attention span shrank to that of an overexcited Labrador: her top record for paying attention was about twenty minutes. It got very tiring having one's imminent demise drawn out with complicated diagrams…but '_trials and tribulations…much suffering_.' Did Trelawney perhaps know about Dumbledore's intended lessons? Did she know how difficult they were going to be? Could she, Harriet, handle them? Sirius had said Dumbledore would be taking her outside Hogwarts…but _why_?

Someone kicked her hard in the shin, and she yelped.

"_Ow_!" she glared at Rhona. "What was that for?" Rhona, who was hiding her smirk in her teacup, glancing pointedly down at the fireplace. The whole class was staring at her, and Professor Trelawney's enormous eyes seemed to be glaring at her.

"I was saying, my dear, that you were clearly born under the baleful influence of Saturn," said Professor Trelawney, adjusting her many shawls and bangles. Harriet glanced around.

"Er—_what_?"

"Saturn, my dear one, the _planet_, Saturn," Professor Trelawney enunciated bitterly. She frequently got offended that her predicting Harriet's death wasn't something she considered to be spellbinding. Not after the hundredth time, no. "I was saying that Saturn was clearly in a position of great influence at the time of your birth—your raven hair, your mean stature—"

"What d'you mean, '_mean_'?" Harriet flushed angrily. She may have been a scrawny little 'shrimpo' like Charlie said, but she had grown a lot, and being fed at Hogwarts with three full meals a day had plumped her up a bit so she didn't bear the resemblance of the scarecrow in Hagrid's pumpkin-patch.

"She's grown loads over the summer!" Rhona said testily, eyeing Professor Trelawney with an unkind glint in her eyes.

"I was merely saying, my dear, that the influence of Saturn has wrought you with very great sufferings so early in your tragic life," Professor Trelawney said in a misty, delicate voice, as if she was addressing an impatient of a psychiatric ward. "I think I may be right in saying, my dear, that you were born in mid-winter."

"No," Harriet said tartly, straightening her back and giving Professor Trelawney a very cutting glare. "I was born at the end of July."

Professor Trelawney went on to illuminate the entire class on how much of a freak Harriet was for another half an hour (by which time Rhona kept having to drop her quill so she could hide her grins from Professor Trelawney every ten seconds). And then she set them a complicated circular chart in which they were supposed to fill out the locations of the stars and planets at the exact moment of their births.

"Hang on a minute," Harriet said slowly, sifting through the sheets of parchment on which were complicated diagrams and timetables and calculations. "I've got two Neptunes. That can't be right…can it?"

"_Aaaaaah_," Rhona said, and she tugged Harriet's glasses from her bag, which magnified her eyes to twice their size. "When two Neptunes appear in the sky, it is a sure sign that a midget in glasses is being born!" Dean and Seamus, who were sitting at the table below them, snorted with laughter and Harriet grinned as she swiped playfully at Rhona, taking back her glasses.

"For your information, five-foot-four _and three quarters_ is a perfectly normal height for someone of my age," Harriet said loftily, managing to look down her nose, up at Rhona. "It's not my fault you're a freak."

"Better a freak than a Smurf," Dean spoke up, grinning. Harriet's mouth twitched as he grinned up at her. "D'you know how tall they are, Harriet?" Seamus egged him on. "Three apples," Dean said, holding his hands that far apart, speaking in a high-pitched voice. "Three apples."

"Why are you all bullying me today?" Harriet asked quietly, grinning and blushing.

"_Oooh_, Professor! Professor, look! I think I've got an unaspected planet here, look! Which planet is that?"

"That…is Uranus, my dear," Professor Trelawney said, and Seamus caught Harriet's eye before turning to Lavender.

"Can I take a look at Uranus too, Lavender?" he asked, and they all choked with laughter, hiding behind their diagrams when Professor Trelawney looked up sharply. It was this, perhaps, the insulting of one of her few praising students, that led to her weigh them down with their first homework assignment of the year at the end of the three-hour double lesson.

"A detailed analysis of the way the planetary alignments will affect _you_, with reference to your personal star-chart," she snapped at the end of the lesson: Lavender was still pink-cheeked. "I want it completed for the upcoming month, and ready to be handed in next Monday—no excuses."

"Touch_y_," Rhona said scathingly, as they descended the silver ladder down to the landing. "That's going to take us all weekend, that will!" They had to wake Sirius, who had curled up and had been sleeping very soundly, only snuffling occasionally, at the foot of the ladder, and he seemed to sense they were in moods as they traipsed downstairs for dinner.

* * *

"Weasley—hey _Weasley_!" Malfoy stood flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, all looking smug, and Malfoy held something in his hand, which he unfurled slowly and smirked as he said, "Listen to this!"

'**FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC**

_It seems as though the Ministry of Magic's troubles are not over, writes _Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. _Recently under fire for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of one Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office_.'

"_Arnold _Weasley—imagine not even getting his _name_ right," Malfoy sneered joyously. "It's as if he's a complete nonentity, isn't it!" The Hall had gone very quiet; everyone was listening.

'_Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying Muggle car two years ago was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers ('policemen') over a number of highly explosive dustbins. Mr Weasley appears to have rushed to the aid of one 'Mad-Eye' Moody, the retired ex-Auror, who left work when no longer able to tell a handshake from attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr Moody's heavily-guarded home, that Mr Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr Weasley was forced to Modify several memories of the Muggles who had been involved before he could escape from the policemen. Mr Weasley refused the _Daily Prophet_ any comment on why he involved the Ministry in such an undignified and embarrassing scene_.'

"And there's a picture, Weasley," Malfoy sneered, unfolding the newspaper and turning it round. "A picture of your _parents_, outside their house—if you can call it that. Your mother could do with losing some weight, couldn't she, Weasley?"

Harriet wrenched on the back of Rhona's robes to stop her flying at Malfoy, as did Sirius; six inches taller than him, she could easily have flattened him, but Harriet growled, planting herself bodily in front of Rhona.

"You've felt the back of my hand once," she snarled at him, glowering so dangerously the smug smile fell from his face, and his cheeks went slightly pink at Rhona's snigger. "_You'll_ _get_ _it_ _again_!" She forced Rhona away, towards the Great Hall doorway.

_BANG_.

Harriet reached for her wand as Sirius barked loudly, growling low and dangerous; "_OH NO YOU DON'T, LADDIE!!_" Professor Moody was limping down the marble staircase, fresh from a Defence lesson. He had his wand out and was pointing it at a shivering, pure-white ferret that was exactly where Malfoy had been seconds ago. Nobody spoke, all eyes on Moody.

"Did he get you?" Moody growled at her.

"No," Harriet said blankly. Mrs Malfoy had warned her, after all—but she hadn't known Mad-Eye Moody, Dark-Wizard Catcher Extraordinaire, was teaching at Hogwarts.

"LEAVE IT!"

"Leave what?" Harriet asked, after jumping a foot in the air, back into Rhona.

"Not you," Moody growled, and jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. Harriet glanced around him, and saw Crabbe, about to pick up the ferret. It seemed to Harriet that Moody's eye could see through the back of his head…and she wondered what _else_ it could see through. The ferret, which by now Harriet assumed correctly was Malfoy, streaked across the marble Hall towards the dungeons. There was another _BANG_ and the ferret flew ten feet in the air, falling with a painful _smack_, then bounced up into the air again.

"I don't like people who attack when their opponent's back's turned—_especially_ if that opponent is half their size," Moody growled, and Harriet, eyes on the ferret, feeling at once shock and amusement, also felt a stab of annoyance. She was _hardly_ half Malfoy's height. Up to his nose, perhaps, but not…

"Never-Do-That-Again!" Moody snarled, with each word bouncing Malfoy off the floor.

"Professor Moody!"

"Hullo, Professor McGonagall," said Moody, completely unfazed, still bouncing Malfoy.

"What—what are you doing?" Professor McGonagall asked weakly.

"Teaching."

"Is that—that's not a _student_, Moody!" Professor McGonagall shrieked, and Harriet caught sight of Hermes' expression; though there was no love lost between him and Malfoy, Hermes' expression was one of mingled disapproval and discomfort; he was actually feeling _sorry_ for Malfoy, _worrying_ about him.

"Yep."

"_No_!" Professor McGonagall had whipped her wand out, running down the stairs, the books she had been carrying scattered everywhere, and a second later, Malfoy had appeared in a sprawling heap on the floor, his sleek blonde hair everywhere, his face very pink. He got up, slowly, wincing painfully with every movement.

"All of you—get to your dinners!" Professor McGonagall barked, but they all drifted, still listening to the shouts in the Great Hall, as they moved down the house tables to their seats.

"Don't talk to me," Rhona whispered, her face blissfully illuminated with a glow that only came from seeing Malfoy punished.

"Why not?" Hermes asked, doling them both casserole from a nearby tureen.

"I want to remember _that_ for the _rest_ of my _life_!" Rhona breathed, her eyes closed, beaming. "Draco Malfoy…the amazing bouncing ferret."

Within five minutes, after a good laugh about Malfoy, Hermes had dashed off again to the library, even though "he said Professor Vector didn't give him any homework."

"Hey, when do we have Moody's lesson?" Harriet asked, and she tugged out her timetable, frowning.

"Not 'til Thursday!"

* * *

**A.N.**: Note the Smurfs reference—it'll be important for a future chapter!

* * *


	19. Smoads

**A.N.**: What you have to understand is that Smoads are the creation of my best-friend, _chainofcommand_, when we met up a few weeks ago, after seeing _The Proposal_, I was talking about one of my Twilight fanfictions (neither of us can actually remember now!) and Alex suddenly got a visual in her head of a cross between Smurfs and the woad-warriors from _King Arthur_: the Smoads were born. (I helped name them!) This creation occurred about midnight after much caffeine and lack of sleep—we always tend to end up mistreating ourselves in this way when we get together! Anyway, read on and enjoy!

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**Smoads**

* * *

Wednesday was marked by Norah melting her sixth cauldron during Potions: She always went into nervous collapse five minutes before Potions lessons, and not even copious amounts of Chocolate Frogs from Hermes and Harriet could cheer her up about the prospect of her first detention of the year—which she came back from looking like she'd been locked in a room with Dementors. Professor Snape was the thing she feared most, so it was the equivalent. Hermes had to teach her a Scouring Charm to get the guts of horned toads (which she'd been disembowelling all evening) from under her fingernails.

"Just remember, Norah," Rhona called happily from their worktable, which she had spread with a few bottles of _Madam Primpernelle's_ products and was testing out the various nail-polishes instead of working on her star-chart for Trelawney. "Vulture-topped hats, and red handbags."

Norah, her lower lip trembling, still very white, but nibbling on a chunk of Honeydukes chocolate (the kind that had little pieces of fudge in it, which Harriet knew was Norah's favourite) smiled miserably. Without the presence of kind Professor Lupin, Harriet didn't know whether Norah would be able to defeat even a Boggart-Snape. Over on the sofa, where Dean (who had grown about a foot over the summer) was sprawled out, drawing, while Seamus tried to re-charm his rosette into full-force (it was still squeaking the names of the Irish National Team, but in a tired, feeble sort of voice of a person who was nearing the end), a debate filtered over the rest of the noise of the common room over how Moody's lessons might measure up to or outdo Professor Lupin's.

Harriet sat in a big armchair reading the first chapter of _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_, cringing every other sentence, grimacing at the pictures, but was thoroughly enthralled by the accounts and revelations of the author, who, in the introduction, told the readers he had served as an Auror for thirty years before becoming disillusioned. Padfoot was playing tug-of-war with the Creevey brothers over an Ever-Bashing Boomerang, and Hermes kept shooting them worried glances, fearing Padfoot would send tiny Dennis through the window.

"Or," she spoke up, to Norah, as Rhona examined her nails, each of which had been painted a different colour (she and Harriet had each been given five sample colours) "you could just get Snape mad enough in front of you that he attacks, and Mad-Eye Moody could turn him into a snake, and tie him in knots!" Norah smiled, her eyes twinkling.

"Hey Harriet," Dean called, and he jumped off the sofa to bound over to their little nook. He placed a large piece of parchment over her book with a flourish and a very white grin. Harriet sat up, tugging the parchment up to eye level, and blushed, smiling, at what she saw.

She had grown up watching _The_ _Smurfs_ from a distance—usually hiding behind the living-room door, watching through the crack between the hinges, so Daisy wouldn't notice and turn it off just to spite her: Dean had drawn a Smurf, about ten inches tall on the thick piece of parchment. But it wasn't a Smurf as Harriet had ever seen them. This Smurf was female, with a big shock of jet-black hair that stuck out in all directions and big dark emerald-green eyes (darker than Harriet's, which blazed a brilliant green). Its skin was a dark greeny-blue, the colour of the lake, and all over it were painted swirling midnight-blue patterns that all seemed to have stemmed from a lightening-bolt scar on her forehead. The Smurfette bore a long staff of gleaming wood the exact same colour as Harriet's holly and phoenix-feather wand, with something sharp, silver and pointy attached to the top.

"What is _this_?" she laughed.

"Oh, well—" Dean grinned, leaning on the arm of Harriet's chair and pointing out parts of the Smurf. "It's a Smoad."

"A _what_?"

"Sounds like something Hagrid would have!" Rhona remarked darkly.

"No—it's the combination of a Smurf," Dean grinned, "and a woad."

"A _woad?_" Hermes blurted, glancing up, and he abandoned Norah's Scouring Charm to look over Harriet's shoulder, and laugh.

"Yeah, you know, warriors of the north, who painted their bodies with blue war-paint," Dean grinned. "I was watching _King Arthur_ this summer," he explained, shrugging, and Hermes nodded thoughtfully. Dean tapped the parchment with his wand and muttered something, and suddenly Smoad-Harriet was brandishing her spear, her expression crazed, and he had nailed Harriet's aggressive stance to a tee! Leaning forward slightly, feet parted, planted firmly on the ground, narrow shoulders hunched, her eyes narrowed in a very dark glower that Harriet hadn't realised was quite that scary.

"Wow!" Rhona laughed, looking like a surgeon after they'd scrubbed their hands for surgery, her fingers splayed, hands raised, so she didn't smudge her nails, as she walked over to Harriet's armchair. "It looks like you in the morning, Harriet!"

"Hey! Charlie said I was a '_nesting-dragon in the morning_', not an axe-wielding warrior Smoadette!" Harriet said indignantly, grinning as her Smoad self pulled a flashing silver axe from the leather belt around her hips.

"Can you imagine an army of those things?" Seamus laughed loudly.

"Who needs an army of them—we've got the original," Rhona grinned at Harriet.

"It's a _very_ good rendition, Dean," Hermes grinned, laughing.

"It reminds _me _of what you looked like after you killed that Basilisk, Harriet," Norah said quietly, biting her lip. Norah had been given Tom Riddle's diary in their second year, had been coerced by Tom Riddle to take herself down into the Chamber of Secrets and bait Harriet down there for him to kill…non-intentionally, of course. But Norah was still touchy about it. "You were all covered in muck and slime and blood…"

"Blood!" Dean snapped his fingers, his eyes sparkling with inspiration. "No…I'll put it in the next drawing."

"You're doing another drawing?" Harriet asked, straightening up in her armchair, where she'd been curled up for half an hour, reading. Dean grinned and dove back onto the sofa, reaching for his parchment, pencils and paints.

"Well, even if you're a munchkin," Hermes grinned, "at least you're inspirational!"

"Hey! The best things come in the littlest packages!" Harriet said loftily, choosing to ignore Rhona's snickering. "Just look at diamonds! Tiny, but unbreakable _and_ beautiful!"

"Yeah, but you're only _one_ of those three!" Rhona laughed, and Harriet lobbed _The Dark Forces_ at her as she went back to her table, getting her in the small of her back.

"Can I have that back? I need to finish reading Chapter One," Harriet said guiltily, and Rhona rolled her eyes as she chucked the book back to her. The portrait hole opened and the twins sauntered into the common room; George bore a scroll, and draped himself over the back of Harriet's armchair, pouting his lips for a kiss, dangling the scroll in front of her face.

"I demand payment for my services," he said, fluttering his eyelashes. Harriet snatched the scroll and shoved George off the back of her armchair; Rhona's laugh punctuated the air and everyone else chuckled when they saw George sprawled on the rug. The twins and Lee took over the entertainment for the evening, and Harriet turned to the scroll, recognising instantly the swirling, elegant calligraphy she had begun to emulate in her own handwriting.

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_I would like it for our lessons to begin at 2 pm this coming Friday. I have already asked Professor Snape to excuse you from his lesson, however he insists on you copying notes from Mr Granger and also completing the homework he will be assigning. I will meet you in my office at a quarter to two. Please make sure you bring your Invisibility Cloak, just in case (I would also prefer it if you started carrying your Cloak with you at all times, just as a precaution)._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_P.S.: I really do prefer Rhubarb-and-custards._

* * *

"He prefers Rhubarb-and-custards?! What's he on about?" Rhona asked, peering over Harriet's shoulder.

"It's the password into his office," Harriet said.

"And he got you out of Snape's double-lesson!" Rhona pouted at the injustice of it. "Wow, he must be serious about this."

"Why do you need to miss lessons, though?" Hermes wondered aloud. "Sirius said he thought Professor Dumbledore didn't want your work with him to interfere with your usual schooling."

"Well, if I get out of Potions, _I'm_ not going to be the one to complain," Harriet said, stretching and groaning.

"You will be when you have to copy Hermes's notes," Rhona said darkly.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review on Smoads!

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	20. Avada Kedavra

**A.N.**: This chapter kind of drained me! Writing the stuff about Harriet later on…sad…anyway, read and review please!

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**Avada Kedavra**

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It wasn't usual for Harriet to do extra work for her classes—she was a dedicated underachiever. She didn't usually read new schoolbooks over the summer and memorise them like Hermes did; she just wasn't that _good_. Until last year, she'd never actually read a single Defence textbook they'd been set, mostly because she'd thought them ludicrous. But Remus' lessons last year had inspired her to make much more of an effort. "_You'd have given your parents a run for their money…and between you and me, that is saying something_," he had once told her. While she was nowhere near finishing _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_ for Moody (which he had assigned to every class, no matter whether they were N.E.W.T. students or first years) she was already halfway through Chapter One (the writing was very small, the sentences complex, and the subject-matter very difficult and sometimes, most of the time, disturbing. The author had been a head Auror during the eleven years when Lord Voldemort was in the very height of his reign of terror. She had already read about Dark Detectors and their effectiveness and their flaws, and had read the outline on which counter-curses all Aurors should have in their arsenal. She had just begun reading about something called the Unforgivable Curses.

Everyone in fourth year arrived for their first Defence lesson on Thursday, early after lunch; unusual for a first lesson, everyone sat quietly, books, quills and parchment ready, all waiting for the unmistakable _clunk_ of Professor Moody's wooden leg. Harriet turned to the last page she had been reading, and was immersed in the history of the Unforgivable Curses when Hermes tapped her arm. She had been so immersed in reading that Moody had arrived without her notice.

"You can put those away, all of you," he barked, and regretfully, Harriet slipped her things back into her bag. _The Dark Forces_ was the only book she had ever really _wanted_ to read in its own right, not just as a source of answers for an essay. "When it comes to the Dark Arts, I believe in a practical approach—you can never fully appreciate what you're up against until you've tasted it—Now, I've had a letter from your old professor, Lupin, about you lot. You've had a pretty thorough grounding in Dark Creatures, and due to circumstances beyond your control, you're still behind—very behind—on curses. So, I'm here to bring you up to speed—Potter. What can you tell me about the Unforgivable Curses?"

Feeling her cheeks flush as she felt all eyes on the back of her head, and Hermes fidgeted beside her in agitation, Harriet said, "Um…there are three of them—"

"Speak up, girl!"

"There are three Unforgivable Curses, and they are so named because their creation went against nature. The Dark Wizard who invented them was sentenced to spend the rest of his lifetime in Azkaban when he was finally overpowered in 1672. Today the Unforgivable Curses are still the most heavily punished by Wizengamot law—imprisonment for life in Azkaban for the use of any one of them."

"Good girl. And can you tell me the names of these curses?"

Harriet blushed again. "I haven't read that far yet."

"Who can fill Potter in? Weasley."

"How'd you know my—?"

"Your father helped me out of a spot of bother with the Ministry a few days ago," Moody growled. "A curse?"

"Well, Dad did tell me about one, when I wasn't behaving for Mum," Rhona said uncertainly. "The Imperius Curse?" Moody chuckled darkly.

"Your father would know about that one—gave the Ministry a lot of trouble in years past," Moody growled, and he jammed his gnarled hand into a large glass jar, in which three large spiders scuttled around. Rhona stiffened, looking anywhere but at the jar.

"_Imperio_!" The first spider, now in Moody's hand, leapt from his palm on a fine length of silvery thread, swinging; its legs rigid, it completed a back-flip in mid-air and cart-wheeled in a circle on the desk. Harriet watched, fascinated, enthralled and slightly…she couldn't explain it. One of the Unforgivable Curses gave the caster complete, unquestionable control; this was it. Moody was the puppeteer. The spider rose onto two of its hind legs and went into a silent tap-dance. Maybe it was different, seeing its effects on humans, but the effect it had on the spider was…comical—at least, what Moody was making it do was comical, but she could only imagine what kinds of sinister things people could be forced to do without any chance of resisting.

The rest of the class was laughing. Whilst Harriet had been thinking, Moody had been glaring around the room, unsmiling. "Think it's funny, do you? You'd like it, would you, if I used it on you? I could make it throw itself out of the window, _drown_ itself, burrow through your eyeballs…" Rhona shuddered involuntarily. "Scores of witches and wizards claim that they only did Lord Voldemort's bidding (everyone except Harriet winced) under the influence of the Imperius Curse. But here's the crux—how do we figure out the liars? It takes real strength of character indeed to throw off the Imperius Curse, to battle against it—but I'll be teaching you how. Now—another. Someone give me another curse. Yes—you."

Harriet glanced around: It was Norah. There was surprise in her large, kind brown eyes; the only lesson Norah ever volunteered in was Herbology—easily her best subject and the one she enjoyed the most. Her voice was small but distinct: "There's one—the Cruciatus Curse." Both Mad-Eye's eyes were focused on Norah, then the magic one zoomed down to focus on the class register he hadn't yet taken.

"Your name'll be Longbottom, will it?" he said, in a less-threatening growl than they'd yet heard. "Yes, I knew your father—excellent Auror, one of the best I ever worked with…So, the Cruciatus Curse." Dropping the first spider back into the jar, Moody caught the second. "This little beauty needs to be a little large for you to see the effects—_Engorgio_!" Rhona clamped her white lips shut, her cheeks going slightly green, and threw her chair back from Moody's desk as the spider swelled to the size of a tarantula. "_Crucio_!"

Harriet's stomach turned as she watched; the spider had rolled over, its legs cramped up to its body, twitching and rocking. She knew that it would be screaming at the top of lungs if it had been like an Acromantula, and had a voice, and she glanced away, not wanting to see any more.

Her eyes fell instead on Norah. She had only seen her that pale once before; when she had been draining of all life in the Chamber of Secrets. But her eyes were wide and horrified now, and glazed with unshed tears, not closed as they had been then. Her now colourless lips were parted in mortification; Harriet prodded Hermes, who glanced over his shoulder.

"Hey! Stop it!" Hermes half-shouted. Moody raised his wand, releasing the spider; its legs relaxed but it continued to twitch. He removed the shrunken spider back into the jar.

"Pain," he whispered. "The Cruciatus Curse was once very popular, too…Nobody needed knives or thumbscrews if they could perform the Cruciatus Curse…No…the last, and worse Unforgivable. Who can tell me…Mr Granger." Hermes didn't look like he wanted to speak. When he did, he barely parted his lips.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Rhona glanced uneasily around Harriet, at Hermes, her eyes wide.

"Aah…Yes. Avada Kedavra…the _killing_ curse."

The third spider scuttled frantically across the desk, away from Moody's wand.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

There was a blinding flash of green light that filled the classroom. The spider was dead before it rolled over, unblemished, but unmistakably dead.

* * *

Harriet knew that flash of green light. As a child, locked in the darkness of her cupboard, she used to try and remember the event of her parents' deaths—what Aunt Petunia, until Harriet's eleventh birthday, had called a 'car-accident'. All she could remember was a flash of green light…and then a flying motorbike. Now she pieced it together.

Her father's voice—"_Lily, it's him! Take Harriet and run! Go! I'll hold him off!_" A flash of green light, then her mother's scream, knowing the man she loved had died to give them a few more seconds. Cold, high laughter that made the fine hairs at the back of her neck stand on end, and then her mother's petrified pleading—"_Not Harriet, please! Not our Harriet!_" Lord Voldemort, giving her the chance to save her own life which she, of course, had not taken: Her final act, protecting Harriet with a mother's love so powerful she had given Harriet the strength to defy the darkest wizard in history—"_Stand aside, you silly girl—stand aside!_" Lily's refusal, and a second flash of green light—

* * *

"Harriet," someone said gently, as if from far away. Something warm covered her hand, but the heat lost its way. She wrenched herself away from her parents' murders with great difficulty, and it was like emerging from the depths of a great swimming pool; a deep bell echoed in the corridors. Was it the end of the lesson already? The others were silent as they packed up their quills and parchment. Her cheeks stung; a knee-jerk reaction made her raise her hand, and when she brushed her cheeks, she found they were wet. Wet with tears.

Padfoot met them at the door, tail wagging. People scratched his ears as they passed. His ears drooped when he saw Harriet. Hermes had her bag. She was listening to Lavender—"Did you see it twitch?"—and Seamus—"—and when he _killed_ it, just like _that_…"

"Some lesson, hey!" Rhona breathed, her expression inappropriately exhilarated. "Fred and George were right about him, weren't they, Moody? Really knows his stuff—has to, after what he's seen. When he showed us _Avada Kedavra_, the way that spider just _died_, just snuffed it right—"

Harriet slipped down a hidden staircase, unable to hear any more. Her throat burned, her eyes stung, she was in danger of tripping over the hem of her robes because she wasn't paying attention to her feet. in the corridor two floors below, the sixth-year Hufflepuffs were leaving Transfiguration.

"Hey, Potter!"

"Hi Harriet!"

"Hello, Har—What's wrong?" Cedric peered down at her, his expression filled with concern. Harriet glanced up and shrugged, feeling empty. "I'll meet you at dinner." He took hold of Harriet's robes and tugged her into a vacated classroom, and sat her down on one of the empty desks pushed into the middle of the room.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently, frowning at her tear-stained face.

"Um…W-We just had our f-first Defence Against the D-Dark Arts lesson with Professor M-Moody," Harriet choked, aware suddenly that she was crying.

"What did he say to you?" Cedric asked quickly, frowning deeply. Harriet shook her head.

"N-Nothing," Harriet sobbed quietly, twisting her hands in her lap. "H-he showed us the Unf-Unforgivable C-Curses. He showed us _Avada_ _Kedavra_." She hid her face as she felt it screw up in anguish, and felt Cedric's arm rest with a heavy, comforting weight around her shoulders, leaning her into his chest, rubbing her arm. He didn't say anything, just let her have a little cry, and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks when she looked up.

"They didn't have any ch-chance to d-defend themselves," she wept, choking, mashing a wad of her sleeve into her eyes. "I saw—he just killed them, just like that—he didn't give them a chance to f-fight."

But they had been fighting, she realised. They had been fighting him by keeping her out of his reach. They were fighting him already knowing it was futile, knowing they were marked for death. How that futility had turned her mother's deepest and most desperate love into power. Power for her daughter, to do what no one had ever done before—and survive the Killing Curse.

"It must've been awful for her," Harriet whispered, her eyes still leaking.

"What?" Cedric asked softly. Harriet's eyes filled with tears but she wiped them away roughly.

"Knowing she was going to die, and there was nothing she could do to stop it," Harriet sniffled, her voice very throaty. "She knew he was going to kill her baby next, when he'd killed her." Her eyes focused on nowhere, in between herself and the wall. Cedric's arm tightened around her shoulder and he wiped her tears away again, resting his forehead against hers.

"Maybe there wasn't anything they could do," he said softly. "But at least they didn't suffer. Death that was is instantaneous—they didn't feel anything."

"My father didn't," Harriet said dully, her voice throaty.

"What do you mean?" Cedric asked, his arm tightening again. Harriet shook her head.

"My mother tried to plead with him—Voldemort—tried to beg him to kill her instead of me…Bastard tried to kill us both anyway," she said dully.

"How do you know that?"

"I hear their voices, inside my head, when the Dementors come too near me," Harriet snuffled, heaving a great shaky sigh. Cedric reached into his bag and pulled out a Chocolate Frog.

"That's why you fell off your broomstick that day," he said quietly, as if to himself. Harriet nodded miserably. He sighed heavily, and Harriet took a great shaky breath and released it, wiping her sore cheeks and eyes.

"Think of it this way—at least they weren't attacked by a hoard of vicious, murderous Smoads," Cedric said lightly, and Harriet was so surprised that she laughed into the hind-leg of the chocolate frog. Her cheeks stung from the tears when she smiled, and her eyes felt very tired. She was still wearing her contact-lenses.

"How do you know about them?" she asked hoarsely, smiling. Cedric smiled.

"Dean Thomas gave a copy of his drawing to Hannah Abbot; she likes his artwork," Cedric smiled, his eyes twinkling. "I have to say, I liked the leather outfit concept." Harriet dug her fingertips into his sides, where she had discovered over the last two weeks of holiday he was very, _very _ticklish, and he _giggled_ and writhed.

"You ready to go down?" he asked, still smiling, and Harriet nodded, slipping off the table. Cedric put his arm around her shoulders, and she had to put her arm around his waist to prevent him putting her in a headlock and dragging her, and she nestled her head against him.

"Stop it," he murmured quietly, as they slipped downstairs.

"Stop what?"

"Stop thinking about it," he said quietly.

"About what?"

"You know what," Cedric said softly, glancing down at her. "Stop thinking about the curse."

"I'm trying," Harriet sighed heavily. He guided her downstairs, through the Entrance Hall, and deposited her at the Gryffindor table with Rhona and Hermes, who stopped talking in hushed voices abruptly when Cedric said hello, and they noticed who was with him; Hermes looked anxious, and Rhona a tad guilty, and she focused on her bacon-wrapped chicken-breast. Hermes noted Harriet's red eyes but didn't comment; he said a happy hello to Cedric, spoke for a few moments about Arithmancy, and Cedric nicked the bacon off Rhona's plate and fed it to Padfoot, who licked his chops.

"Hey, Harriet," Cedric said quietly, leaning over her to talk to her privately. "Just 'cos I'm in Hufflepuff, doesn't mean we have to stop seeing each other. Come say hello to me if you want." He gave her a lovely smile, winked, and Padfoot watched Cedric walk to the Hufflepuff table with a very shrewd expression for a dog.

Harriet glanced at the Chocolate Frog card she had been carrying since the Transfiguration floor and bit her lip thoughtfully, examining the picture of a grinning-faced, curly-blonde wizard named Gellert Grindelwald, who was holding a wand Harriet knew instantly. It was…_No, that's not possible_, she thought, shaking her head.

* * *

**A.N.**: Sweet Cedric, _aah_. I just watched the _New Moon_ trailer with my aforementioned friend Alex (or _chainofcommand_) and she's just shrieked "_DON'T KISS HER! YOU'LL GET HERPES OF THE MOUTH_!" to Edward. Ah, Kristen Stewart has all the luck, huh!

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	21. SPEW

**A.N.**: I'm onto writing (or rather, completing) chapter 36, so I thought I'd post a bunch more chapters! I'm having so much fun writing this fic! I may even _finish_ it! I can't say that for any other of my stories except the one-shots! _Tonks's toyboy_, I _love_ your name!

Please note the use of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ and the amazing link I created between Harriet and a Clabbert! I was so impressed with myself when I thought of it!

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**S.P.E.W.**

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After dinner, Hermes dashed off to the library again, just as he had after every meal the entire week, and Harriet made her way upstairs with Rhona, who only spoke to say she guessed they should probably start working on their predictions for Professor Trelawney, if Harriet had her lesson with Dumbledore the next day, and neither of them wanted to spend precious weekend hours working for Trelawney, and Padfoot, who retained his dog form but kept giving Harriet very worried glances. They were early upstairs, early enough that Rhona could pick out their choice of worktable: she chose the one nearer the fire, by the sofa, so Padfoot could sprawl on the hearth without being too far away from them, close enough to listen to their conversation.

Upstairs, Harriet had offered to get Rhona's stuff upstairs while she kept their table, and Harriet found Norah, sitting alone in the dormitory. She was sitting in bed, propped against her pillows, with a large book open in her lap. She looked a lot calmer than she had done when Moody had performed the Cruciatus Curse, but, like Harriet, her eyes were red.

"Hi Norah," Harriet said, noticing her voice was still quite throaty. "You alright?"

"Oh!" Norah glanced up; she was smiling to begin with, then her eyes flickered over Harriet's face. "Yes, I'm fine, thank you. Are _you_ alright? You look terrible."

"Rough lesson, huh," Harriet sighed, going to Rhona's untidy trunk and rifling through it for her _Unfogging the Future_ textbook. Now that she looked at Norah—sitting in her bed, which was surrounded by Norah's plants (the bright marigolds were Harriet's special favourites of Norah's collection), Harriet realised she hadn't seen Norah at dinner.

"Why weren't you at dinner?" she asked.

"Oh…Professor Moody and I had tea in his office," Norah said. "He lent me this—" Harriet read the title of the book Norah held up; _Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and Their Properties_, "and apparently, Professor Sprout told Professor Moody that I'm _really_ good at Herbology." There was a faint note of pride in Norah's voice Harriet had rarely heard there before—the only time, actually, Harriet had ever heard Norah that self-confident was after tackling Remus' Boggart, their first Defence lesson of last year. Norah was rarely told she was good at anything.

"Well, you _are_ really good at Herbology," Harriet said honestly, smiling, and Norah beamed at her.

"Professor Moody thought I'd like this," she said quietly. Telling Norah what Professor Sprout may or may not have said, it didn't matter, was a very good way of cheering Norah up; it was the kind of thing Remus would have done. "I think he might've wanted you to come and join us, because he was a bit worried about you," Norah said quietly, eyeing Harriet's face concernedly. "He said he wasn't quite sure he did the right thing in showing us all the Avada Kedavra curse like that without warning us what would happen."

Harriet nodded, and toyed with the dilapidated spine of Rhona's second-hand _Unfogging the Future_ book. "It's what _he_ used to kill your parents, isn't it?" Norah said quietly, and Harriet nodded, and turned to her own trunk, pulling out _Unfogging the Future_ and her notes from last lesson.

"Well, me and Rhona are gonna be up 'til midnight working on Trelawney's predictions," she sighed, waving the books. "If you want to come down and sit with us…" Norah smiled and nodded, and Harriet went back downstairs, thinking of Remus, and wondering what advice he would have to give if she wrote to him and told him about Avada Kedavra. Rhona grumbled and put away the letter she was penning to her mother, and by the time she and Rhona had set up their things, the common room was crowded and noisy as usual; Fred and George were, as usual, at the heart of the commotion.

An hour later, they had made no progress, though their table was littered with calculations and star charts and sums and symbols on scraps of parchment and crumpled up attempts.

"I don't know what the _hell_ this lot is supposed to mean," Rhona said, her eyes magnified because she had borrowed Harriet's glasses to read the fine print on her star-chart, and her hair was standing on end with a few streaks of ink because she'd run her blotted hands through it so many times. "Maybe it's time to get back to the old Divination standby."

"What?" Harriet asked, picking her head up off her textbook and blinking blearily at Rhona; she picked her little compact mirror out of her bag, tossed her contact-lenses into the wastepaper basket in the corner of the fireplace and slipped her glasses on. She pushed them up her nose. "Make it up?"

With a great sweeping gesture of her long arm, Rhona cleared their table, pulled out a fresh bit of parchment, dipped her quill in her inkpot, and started to write, her tongue between her teeth—"Next Monday, I am likely to develop a cough, owing to the unlucky conjunction of Mars and Jupiter—you know her, just put in a ton of misery and pain, and she'll lap it up."

Harriet crumpled up her fifth attempt and threw it over the heads of a group of second-years playing gobstones, and grabbed a fresh sheaf of parchment. "Alright…on Monday, _I_ will be in danger of—erm—_burns_."

"Too right! We're seeing the Skrewts again on Monday," Rhona said darkly. "Tuesday…I'll…"

"Lose a treasured possession," Harriet said thoughtfully, scanning the index of tea-leave translations.

"Excellent—because of…erm…Mercury. You could get stabbed in the back by someone you thought was a friend," Rhona suggested.

"Good one! Because…Venus is in the twelfth house," Harriet scribbled. "And on Wednesday, I think I'll come off worst in a duel."

"Oh! I was going to have a duel! Alright—I'll lose ten galleons in a bet, and be beaten up on _Thursday_ by the debt-collector," Rhona said.

"You could bet I'll win my duel," Harriet suggested, leafing through _Unfogging the Future_.

* * *

If there was ever a way to lift Harriet's mood, she had found it in making up ways with which she was to reach her demise. For the next hour, Harriet and Rhona continued to make up predictions for the coming month—which grew steadily more ludicrously tragic, until the point where Harriet was being drawn, quartered, disembowelled and _then _hung to death by a group of deranged Smoads who had "mistaken me for a—erm—

"A Clabbert!" Harriet laughed loudly, flicking through her old copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, which she had tucked into an inside pocket of her schoolbag sometime last year and forgotten about. They threw their heads back, laughing, "because '_the pustule in the middle of its forehead…turns scarlet and flashes when it senses danger_'," Harriet read out, roaring with laughter, Rhona paralysed in her chair, her cheeks shining, "because the Clabbert is the Smoads' mortal enemy!"

When Fred and George, who had migrated to a quiet corner of the common room half an hour beforehand, and who had been sat huddled together, poring over a piece of parchment, and who Harriet overheard saying, "No—that sounds like we're accusing him. Got to be careful…" went to bed, only Harriet and Rhona were left, and Sirius felt it safe enough to transform back into a human, grinning from ear to ear and picking up Harriet's predictions.

"Not going to have a very good month, are you," he grinned, his eyes twinkling.

"I'm forewarned," Harriet sighed, waving a hand expressively.

"You appear to be forced to remain bedridden due to menstrual cramps here _twice_, a fortnight apart."

"Have I? Oh, buggaration!"

"You haven't put anything about magic-crippling mortification at the hands of the man you love," Sirius remarked quietly, sitting down and handing her predictions back with a very sly smile. Harriet glanced at him shrewdly, and chose to ignore the glitter in his eyes.

"What do you—_No_!" The portrait hole had burst open, and they all froze, then relaxed, breathing sighs of relief; it was Hermes. In one hand, he held a sheaf of parchment, and in the other, a small wooden box whose contents scratched and rattled as he walked. Crookshanks arched his back on Sirius' lap, purring at the sight of Hermes.

"Hello!" he smiled. "I've just finished."

"Me too!" Rhona sighed, stretching and groaning luxuriously, after throwing down her quill. Hermes' smile was replaced by a wary frown, and he tugged Rhona's predictions up from the table. He glanced at Sirius, frowning at the older man.

"Have you been encouraging them?" he asked tartly, a hand on his hip.

"_No_," Sirius grinned, heat making his face glow. "They're bad enough on their own!"

"Yeah!" Harriet said indignantly.

"Stop being such an arse, Hermes," Rhona sighed, shaking her head. "_We've_ been doing our homework. Where've _you_ been, hm?"

"Hey, Hermes, how do _you_ think I should fill the space between sleep-napping naked around the Great Hall and being shot by a quiver of the centaurs' arrows?" Harriet asked, sucking on the end of a sugar quill, a box of which Parvati's mother had sent to her this morning. Hermes just _blinked_ at her, looking quite Professor McGonagall-ish.

"I know!" Harriet grinned, snapping her fingers. "I'll be the unfortunate victim of a love potion, in which the hair of a man whose head was transfigured to that of a donkey has been slipped into, and recover only in time to save myself from saying 'I Do' at our wedding!"

"Ah, if only your mother could say the same thing," Sirius sighed happily, his dimple winking playfully at them, as Rhona almost fell out of her chair for laughing.

"Here, Sirius, there's a copy of the _Night Owl_ here if you want it," Rhona said, who had been digging through a pile of stuff a group of fifth years had left behind when they went up to bed. The _Night Owl_ was a satirical publication which mocked _Daily Prophet_ articles and tore the Ministry to tatters, which Harriet had greatly liked in months past, with regards to their articles on Sirius, which were almost as ludicrous as her predictions. Sirius grabbed Rhona's quill before Hermes had pointed out to Rhona that she was drowning twice, and started on the _Nastily Taxing Crossword_ at the back of the newspaper with the satirical comic strips.

"Don't you think it's a bit obvious you've made these up?" Hermes asked, going over Harriet's predictions.

"How _dare you_!" Harriet hissed, jumping out of her chair, wand ready, as if she had been mortally offended and had to defend her family's honour.

"We've been working like house-elves here!" Rhona said, in mock-outrage.

"Well—I just meant—attacked by a swarm of _Smoads_! They don't even exist," Hermes tried to mollify them, but Sirius chuckled, shaking his head at the hopelessness of him being best-friends with two women.

"For all we know, they _could_ do," Harriet said tartly. "Read the bit about the Clabbert," she said, tapping her parchment in Hermes' hand. She watched him mouth the wording from _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, and he rolled his eyes, looking mildly amused.

"Oh, yes, _very_ clever," he said tartly.

"Fred and George thought so," Harriet said, as if that settled the matter. "What's in the box?"

"Funny you should ask," Hermes said, giving Rhona a look. He took the lid off the box and showed them the contents—inside were about fifty small badges that resembled Cedric's Prefect badge, all of which were brightly coloured, the shape of a tri-corn coat of arms, heavy and all bearing the same lettering—_S.P.E.W._ in gold or silver.

"Um… 'Spew'?"

"It's not _spew_!" Hermes said impatiently, glaring. "It stands for the Society of the Promotion of Elfish Welfare."

"Never heard of it," said Sirius, taking out a crimson and gold badge and examining it.

"Well, of course not—I've just started it," Hermes said proudly. Harriet caught Rhona's eye, and they both cringed.

"How many members have you got?" Rhona asked, smirking slightly.

"Well, if you two join, Rhona, Harriet, _three_," Hermes said. "I'd ask you, Sirius, but you're—"

"Supposed to be a dog," Sirius nodded.

"And you think we'd like to walk around Hogwarts wearing badges that have _'spew'_ on them, do you?" Rhona smirked, laughing softly.

"S—P—E—W! I was going to write Stop the Outrageous Abuse of Our Fellow Magical Creatures and Campaign for a Change in Their Legal Status—but it wouldn't fit. So we're the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, and what I just said is the slogan in our manifesto."

"I'm not getting involved in any socialist party, thanks," Harriet said, finishing off her retrieved predictions with her own death—by choking on her porridge during breakfast, due to a shock from a freak collision between two owls overhead.

"It's not a—Oh! You two!!" Hermes sighed heavily, glowering at them. "You're both joining. I don't want your excuses. You're my friends—friends _support_ each other."

"So how come you wouldn't support _me_ by buying me a new set of dress robes when I asked to borrow the money, hm?" Rhona asked, surveying Hermes with the air of one who is Holier Than Thou.

"The robes your mother bought you are perfectly fine, Rhona, all you need to do is use a Brightening Charm to make the lace a lot lighter," Hermes said huffily. "They'll look as good as new."

"Oh, really? Would _you_ want to go out in public with me if I was wearing them?" Rhona asked tartly, crossing her arms over her chest. Hermes looked like a trapped rabbit, and Sirius snickered quietly, biting his smirking lips.

"Rhona, I have seen you covered in sweat, blood, slime, dragon dung and God knows what else," Hermes said contemptuously. "I hardly think those dress robes could put a damper on our relationship." Rhona's eyes were narrowed to slits, and she was giving Hermes a very Mrs Weasley-ish glare, which either Hermes didn't notice when he addressed Harriet, or he chose to back away from. Either way, he turned to Harriet.

"I've been researching elf-enslavement in the library—apparently it's been going on for _centuries_," Hermes said passionately. "I just can't believe no one's done anything about it 'til now."

"_That's_ _because they like it_," Rhona said loudly.

"Our short-term aims," Hermes read, flicking his parchment flat with a flourish, "are to secure house-elves fair wages and regulated, S.P.E.W.-approved working-conditions. Our long-term aims include changing the laws of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures with regards to non-wand use, and trying to get an elf into the Department itself, because they're _shockingly_ under-represented."

"And how do you plan on doing all that?" Sirius asked, looking mildly interested.

"We start by recruiting members," Hermes said, over Harriet's whisper of, "_Don't encourage him_!"

"I thought two Sickles to join, which pays for the badge and puts forward money to go to the leaflet campaign," Hermes said happily. "Harriet, you're Secretary, as you have the best handwriting, and Rhona, you're Treasurer."

"You're putting _Rhona_ in charge of the money!" Harriet laughed, and Rhona tried to smack her with the collecting tin Hermes had shoved at her.

"Yes—well—Harriet, you'd better write everything I'm saying _now_ as a record of our first meeting," Hermes said, beaming at her expectantly.

"Hermes…" Sirius said slowly, reading over Hermes' manifesto. "Have you ever been down to the kitchens?"

"No—I hardly thought students were supposed to—"

"Well James and I went down there at least twice a day," Sirius said, handing the manifesto back. "I think you'd better take a better look at the working-conditions some of the house-elves are under before you go off accusing everyone of mistreating their help."

"Their _slaves_—" Hermes began hotly, but Sirius overrode them.

"House-elves are not bought and traded like cattle, Hermes," he said sharply. "If that's what you think happens, you have a lot more research to do before you can take these aims public." Rhona was fidgeting with delight, her expression delightedly incredulous and loving at the same time as she glanced between Hermes and Sirius, who was perusing Rhona's predictions with a small smile. Hermes turned to Harriet, with an expression which was, at once, fiercely determined, pitiful and annoyed. She was forced out of guilt and friendship to part with two Sickles, but refused to wear the S.P.E.W. badge pinned to her chest.

* * *

Rhona and Hermes, still disagreeing over S.P.E.W., went to bed first, but Harriet stayed down in the common room with Sirius. She was ashamed to say she had almost forgotten that she had someone here to turn to for advice whenever she needed him; she didn't have to write to Remus about Avada Kedavra, though she knew she would anyway. So Harriet, very quietly, and speaking to her twisting hands, told Sirius about Moody's lesson—or the first twenty minutes of it she had seen.

"He _showed_ you the Unforgivable Curses?" Sirius said dangerously, and Harriet nodded, wondering if she should have just waited to write to Remus.

"He said Dumbledore has a higher opinion than the Ministry of our nerves," Harriet said quietly. Sirius quirked an eyebrow thoughtfully, and nodded. He sighed, glanced at Harriet, and cradled her cheek in his palm, caressing his thumb over her cheekbone.

"And what do you think?" he asked gently, peering at her concernedly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. Harriet shoved her glasses up her nose and sighed miserably.

"I think someone should've told me what happened to Mum and Dad," she admitted quietly. Perhaps not Sirius, nor Remus—they were both still far too emotional about that night, about their friends, to tell her the facts straight up. But Professor Dumbledore—_he_ should've told her. Maybe when he hadn't told her why Lord Voldemort had wanted to kill her, Harriet, maybe he should've told her why and how her parents had been killed. So she hadn't been so horrifically shocked today, when she saw it right in front of her on that spider.

"It's not something a lot of people have accepted yet," Sirius said quietly, his voice hoarse but gentle. His eyes glistened sadly in the firelight. "It was a horrible day, when they went away. James and Lily were very, _very_ popular. A lot of people still can't comprehend that they're gone. It isn't something a parent would want their child to know—how they were murdered."

"Yeah, but it wasn't fair—he shouldn't—I wouldn't've—" He shouldn't have shown her like that, shouldn't have just assumed she'd want to know that way. Blunt, brutal: Matter of fact.

Sirius pulled her into his lap, securing his arms around her in a strong hug. Harriet had no memory of being hugged like this, as if by a parent. She snuggled closer to Sirius, nestling her chin against his shoulder, and swallowed the lump in her throat that had risen when she'd told him about the curse.

"Did you talk to Diggory about this?" he asked quietly, stroking her hair. Harriet nodded.

"Tried to cheer me up," she sighed, smiling slightly to herself as the vision of Cedric giggling and writhing because she'd been tickling him came into her head. Sirius, playing with her new S.P.E.W. badge (purple and silver) glanced down at her thoughtfully.

"You like this boy, don't you," he said quietly, glancing down again. Harriet felt her cheeks flushing, and Sirius nodded thoughtfully, discerning her blush to mean she _did_ like him. "You smile a lot more often when you're talking to him."

"He makes me happy," Harriet shrugged, speaking honestly. Sirius made a thoughtful noise.

"He's easy on the eyes, too, huh!"

Harriet grinned, and she felt Sirius' chuckle reverberate in his chest.

* * *

**A.N.**: I do love Sirius being around. It makes so much more sense—why J.K. felt the need to have him live off rats in a cave when _nobody_ but Dumbledore and the kids knew he was an Animagus I don't know!

* * *


	22. The First Lesson

**A.N.**: Another new chapter. This is where it really starts to twist and turn! Harriet's first lesson with Professor Dumbledore.

* * *

**The First Lesson**

* * *

The a.m. dawned unusually early and very bright, and compounding the silver-enamelled sky, Padfoot barked happily. They weren't as groggy as usual, and they were all chatting quite amicably as they got their things ready to shower. Lavender and Parvati were talking quietly about Lavender's predictions for a fortnight-Thursday, that someone was going to take a romantic interest in her.

"I think that's wishful thinking, Lavender, not prediction," Rhona grinned sleepily, repairing the hem on a nicer jumper her mum had knitted her—purple, not maroon, after returning from the bathroom, freshly-showered.

"Ha, _ha_, Rhona!" Lavender laughed, rolling her eyes. Harriet laughed softly and slipped down to the bathroom, showered and washed her hair, and remembered that today was Friday, which marked the end of her first week back, and the first of her lessons with Dumbledore—which meant she would be skipping double-Potions. That thought, and the use of her favourite floral shampoo, made her feel _very_ happy, and she slipped back upstairs in her fluffy dressing gown, humming '_Jerusalem'_. Only Parvati was dressed in her robes (Padfoot always left the room after waking them), tying her long satiny black hair in a neat plait. Harriet was just tugging her socks on when Rhona gasped.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"Sp-Spider!" Rhona gasped. "Spider—get it off me—!"

"I don't like spiders—"

"Me neither!"

"Oh my god" Rhona shrieked, launching herself off her bed, doing a sort of jig in the middle of the dormitory, waving her long arm like a windmill. "Get it _off_!"

"Go out in the stairs! Don't keep it in here!" Norah called, hopping onto her bed as Rhona ran around the room, something clamped in her fingers .She looked like she was going to be sick, and the other four girls were all laughing loudly, disregarding the six other dormitories filled with sleeping girls. Rhona was shrieking out in the little landing into their room, trying to make sure, when she tossed the spider out of the window, that it wouldn't make its way back onto the lapels of her dressing-gown by its thread.

"Ruddy Gryffindor lion-hearts you all are!" Rhona growled, storming back into the dormitory, shivering in horror and disgust. They all just laughed louder in reply. They all finished getting dressed (Parvati put Harriet's hair up into a neat and very pretty French plait) and, for perhaps the first time in their entire Hogwarts career, they all went down to the Great Hall together, chattering as a group—"otherwise Hermes will try and rope me into Spew again!"

* * *

In the Great Hall, Harriet noticed Cedric already sitting at the Hufflepuff table, surprisingly alone, and reading through his _Monster Book of Monsters_, biting his lip.

"I'll be back in a second," Harriet smiled, hoisting her bag (and the Invisibility Cloak folded within) higher up her shoulder, and went over to Cedric.

"Hagrid's not making you sing nursery rhymes to manticores, is he?" she asked, glancing at the page to which the book was open. Cedric glanced up and smiled.

"Hullo Harriet—Um…No, I don't think they're _entirely_ manticores," he said, eyes twinkling. "His Blast-Ended Skrewts."

"Oh, Hagrid's got your class tending them too?" Harriet cringed sympathetically.

"First lesson of the day," Cedric sighed, looking as if he greatly regretted taking Care of Magical Creatures.

"And on a Friday too," Harriet sighed, trying to keep her expression sombre as she laid a hand tenderly on Cedric's shoulder. "I am so sorry." Cedric chuckled appreciatively, his eyes sparkling.

"You seem a lot more cheerful this morning," he smiled, and Harriet nodded. "Any particular reason?"

"A few, actually," Harriet smiled, sitting down. "It's Friday, for starters."

"Always a good day," Cedric agreed, "even if you're seeing Skrewts."

"Yup. And Rhona was sexually assaulted by Cecil the Spider this morning, so, you know, seeing Rhona dance to get him off is enough to make even Moaning Myrtle grin." Cedric laughed, shaking his head.

"Cecil the Spider?"

"I named him," Harriet nodded, smiling blithely.

"Any other reasons?" he asked, still grinning.

"Yes, actually," Harriet grinned, tugging her completed predictions out of the really cool homework-diary Hermes had bought her as one of her presents for her birthday over the summer (Rhona had said it was an oxymoron to get a cool homework diary) with a brand-new Quidditch move, a biography of a famous player or an historical event in Quidditch on every new day. "_I_ finished my Divination homework, and it isn't even due 'til Monday after lunch."

Usually she and Rhona would have spent that Monday lunchtime cramming in their Divination homework. It was a good sign. Cedric took her predictions and grinned into his teacup as he read them, almost choking on his tea with laughter when he read how she had, quite uncannily, compared herself to a Clabbert.

The Hall was filling up fast now, and Padfoot came over to whine and tried to pull her away by the sleeve of her robes. The post owls arrived and Harriet said goodbye to Cedric as a barn owl delivered his _Daily Prophet_ and Donella landed with a large package from his mother.

* * *

She wasn't as upset by the other girls getting things from their parents as usual—"Mm…I love this new fudge from Honeydukes! Mum sent me a brick of it!" "Oh. Tampons. Very practical mother I have!" "I hoped Gran would find _Magical Plants of the Highland Lochs_! She says she found it in the cupboard underneath the sink!" "Percy's still being a prat; Mum wants me to get nine O.W.L.s to make up for Fred and George, and Charlie's gone back to Romania! Bill left for Egypt on Tuesday"—because a beautiful citron-crested Cockatoo soared down to land on the coffeepot, a letter addressed to her attached to its leg. There was a flash from Colin's camera—"Wow, Harriet! Whose bird is _that_?"

Harriet took the letter and recognised Remus Lupin's small, neat writing. The bird lapped up some water from Rhona's saucer and flew off to the Owlery, presumably. She couldn't imagine Remus had managed to fund a trip anywhere exotic (as the last she'd heard, Tom the barman was letting him work for room and board at the Leaky Cauldron) so she opened the letter quickly.

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_By the time you get this, your first week back to school might already be over. (I was a little wary about using the cockatoo—Nincompoop!—in case he got lost or attacked.) I would like to hear everything about your first week back. Did you like your surprise? Padfoot swore me to secrecy until you'd seen him, so I wanted until now to write._

_I sent Professor Moody a letter a few weeks ago, after hearing he had been pulled out of retirement by Professor Dumbledore, about what I managed to teach my classes before I left. He was in the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's anti-Voldemort society (myself, Sirius and your parents were also members) and he was a fierce Auror in his day. Not one I could ever imagine being a teacher, but with what happened at the World Cup, I'm not surprised Dumbledore's asked someone with a background like Moody's to go to Hogwarts. I'd be very interested to learn what and how he teaches you._

_You may be wondering about the bird. Well, Nincompoop belongs to Bathilda Bagshot. You might remember her name from your History of Magic textbook (your dad and I both used that book when __we__ were at school; we always suspected Padfoot always absorbed knowledge through his hair, which made it so shiny, as he never once opened the book!) if you don't remember her from when you were a baby. Bathilda was a friend of your parents' when they were in hiding at Godric's Hollow. I expect you will be hearing from her soon; she's been very curious about the young woman you've grown into since she saw you last._

_About a month ago, Bathilda sought me out to come and live with her, to work for her as a sort of aide and scribe. I am to help her write a new history, as I am now the only (available) person who can give (completely truthful) first-hand accounts of what happened. Bathilda won't let me tell anyone what the history is on, but she did say that I may mention to you that she will do her utmost to portray your parents exactly as the world saw them—kind, fiercely brave, loyal people who absolutely adored you—with no embellishments or false illusions._

_Bathilda is a lovely lady, but she isn't half surrounded by tragedy! I think her writing about your parents now is her way of accepting what happened to them—I think she grew very attached to your family when you were so near to her. It makes me quite sad to think she may have spent her last years (she keeps reminding me very matter-of-factly that this history is to be her last completed work) alone, though there is a feisty young witch named Tonks (Nymphadora, technically, though she almost hexed poor old Bathilda for introducing her to me that way!) who comes to check up on her every Sunday for a cup of tea. Bathilda says Tonks keeps her young—I can sympathise, after spending a year back at Hogwarts. I do miss teaching you all!_

_That said, I hope I will recover from my next transformation with a lovely long reply waiting from you to cheer me up!_

_Please give my best to Rhona and Hermes—and please remind Norah (I know she was upset about me leaving, almost as much as you were) that she can do anything she sets her mind to as long as she has the self-confidence. And to not let Professor Snape get to her too much, it'll only encourage him._

_Please, look after yourself,_

_All my love,_

_Remus._

_P.S.: Should Padfoot succumb to fleas, your father and I always found that Mrs Skower's All-Purpose Magical-Mess Remover and a good stiff shoe-brush worked wonders. Though perhaps the bites (from Padfoot, not the fleas) weren't quite worth the effort!_

Harriet glanced down at Padfoot's nose—he was reading the letter intently, and growled at the post-script, turning to Harriet to give her a look that said, quite plainly, "_If you even dare…_"

* * *

With the prospect of her first lesson with Dumbledore later, Harriet flew through her lessons in the morning and after break, and by the time lunch rolled around, Rhona was feeling vindictive about Harriet missing double-Potions. Norah looked a good deal more cheerful about the prospect of that double-lesson after what Remus had asked Harriet to tell her. Hermes was rattling around the Great Hall looking for members for S.P.E.W., and Padfoot was lolling on the floor in a path of sunlight. It was extremely warm outside, and Harriet been a little jealous of Cedric because he'd been outside in the morning. At a quarter to two, Harriet found herself before the ugly gargoyle up to Professor Dumbledore's office.

"Rhubarb and custard," she said clearly, just noticing Padfoot stalking down the corridor towards her. As soon as they had mounted the moving spiral staircase, Sirius the man stood beside her.

"Good day today?" he asked, smiling. Harriet reflected; she'd talked to Cedric for a long time _alone_ this morning and made him laugh; she'd heard from Remus and he had a paying job where he could be useful, which he loved; she had got out of double-Potions.

"_Very_ good day today," Harriet smiled, grinning, Cedric's laugh reverberating in her head. He had a lovely laugh, all warm and wholesome, like sweet porridge; it could just fill her up.

"Keep that in mind, whatever you hear, alright," Sirius warned her quietly.

"What do you—?" They had reached the top of the staircase, and Professor Dumbledore beamed in welcome at the door.

"Harriet, Sirius, come in," he smiled, gesturing into the magnificent round office. Harriet had to admire his composure, she thought, because if he was surprised to see Sirius, he gave no hint of it—unless it had been his intention for Sirius to come along anyway. "Do sit down. Help yourself to the sweets." Sirius didn't need telling twice, and handed Harriet a small round opaque yellow-and-pink boiled sweet.

Harriet sat down, not sure exactly what to expect.

"Did you bring your cloak like I asked you, Harriet?" Professor Dumbledore asked, and Harriet nodded. "Excellent. Then we shall begin. And, for the intents and purposes of our lesson today, it is best I begin at the very beginning. I understand that Professor Moody showed your class the effects of the Unforgivable Curses." Sirius made a small, angry noise, but Harriet nodded.

"Then you may, perhaps, have recognised the manner of your parents' deaths?"

Nod.

"So, we come to your mother—her sacrifice. In giving her own life to spare yours, she gave you a lingering protection that flows through your very veins to this day. This, you already know, is _love_. When Hagrid took you from the ruin of your parents' cottage, I asked him to bring you to your aunt and uncle's house. While your aunt may have begrudgingly, even furiously, taken you in, that act alone sealed a powerful magical pact. Your mother's sacrifice made the bond of blood—between you and your aunt—the strongest protection I could invoke.

"It is for that reason that I would not give you to a Wizarding family to raise you—as many would have queued up to do so."

"That's why you wouldn't let Hagrid give me to Sirius," Harriet said quietly, glancing from Dumbledore to her godfather. Strictly speaking, she hadn't been allowed to be privy to that particular conversation in the Three Broomsticks last December. She glanced back at Sirius; he looked deeply mournful.

"Indeed," Professor Dumbledore said, and Sirius fidgeted in agitation. "My first priority was to keep you alive—for I knew, whether it took him twenty, fifty years to return, Lord Voldemort would eventually do so, and would not rest until he had seen the last member of your family destroyed. Therefore, I turned to the most ancient magic of which Lord Voldemort knows, despises, and therefore never ceases to underestimate. It is your mother's love, and your aunt having taken you in, that has potentially kept you alive these last fourteen years.

"A little over three years ago, you stepped foot inside Hogwarts," Professor Dumbledore continued, when Harriet didn't interrupt, his eyes twinkling with something close to melancholy. "You were neither as happy nor as well-nourished as I thought you should be. I had known, when I left you in Privet Drive, that I was bartering for your protection with the sacrifice of your happiness. You were, all things considered, a _normal_ girl of eleven when you began here—a little shy, very modest, kind and brave, and with your father's knack for landing yourself into trouble without intending to. It was my very great relief that you did not develop this talent further, as your father did," Dumbledore winked, and Sirius gave a soft, wistful chuckle, remembering the best-friend who had been closer to him than a brother.

"You will remember as well as I the events of your first year," Dumbledore continued. "You have a spark of curiosity in you that helped you rise magnificently to the challenge that faced you sooner—far sooner—than I had anticipated: You found yourself face to face with Lord Voldemort. You did what any child of your parents would have done—you survived, again, you prolonged his return—_again_. You fought a grown man's fight. I was…more proud of you than I can say.

"Yet here we come to it; the crux—the flaw in my brilliant plan. It was a flaw so obvious to me that it may have undone all. Yet despite my knowledge of this, I told myself that I would not allow this flaw to ruin my plan; the plan had to succeed. And, as you lay there in the hospital, weak from your encounter with Lord Voldemort, you asked me something.

"Can you tell me what the flaw is? What you asked me?"

Harriet shook her head. All she could remember with absolute clarity was Dumbledore's explanation of why Lord Voldemort could not bear to touch her—her mother's love—and the reason for Dumbledore's aversion to Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

"You asked me, Harriet, why Lord Voldemort tried to kill you as a baby," Dumbledore said quietly, his eyes on Sirius as he left his armchair and walked around the room, agitated. "You may remember that I decided not to answer you. Eleven—that was far too young an age for a girl to know _that _particular answer. I had never planned to tell you at eleven—but then, I had never planned on you fighting Lord Voldemort at such a tender age, either. The knowledge, I thought, would be far too much for someone so young. You returned to the Dursleys, better fed than when you had left them, and far happier than I had hoped. I told myself that I had done the right thing in not telling you.

"And then you entered your second year—which was fraught with adventure from the very beginning. The Chamber of Secrets was opened—you faced unkindness from all sides, such as you had only known at the hands of your aunt and uncle—yet when you learned that Norah Longbottom had been taken into the Chamber, you reacted the way either of your parents would have. You went after her. You faced Lord Voldemort again. You defeated him, _again_, against all odds. You saved Norah's life, and you returned from the Chamber with this," Dumbledore said, holding up the mutilated diary of Tom Riddle, with the gore mark from the Basilisk fang, the pages stained with ink and Harriet's blood.

"You did not ask me, this time around, why Lord Voldemort was so insistent on your death, why all his thought was bent on it. We talked of your scar—we discussed at length your ability to speak Parseltongue. So why, then, did I not tell you everything? Well, twelve is hardly better than eleven, after all. You were still a little girl, too young to receive the information I knew, one day, it was my duty to give to you. I allowed you to leave my presence that morning, bloodstained, exhausted but exhilarated; I could not bring myself to spoil that night of triumph, the overwhelming joy you, and indeed everyone, felt because of Norah's safe return.

"Now do you see, Harriet? Do you see my mistake?"

Harriet stared at him, trying to figure it out. "Er…_No_." Dumbledore smiled softly, and sighed.

"I cared about you too much," Dumbledore said plainly, with a little shrug. "The very ideals I had followed when you were a baby—your happiness sacrificed for your future—had been switched. I found myself caring more for your present happiness than your future, more for your peace of mind than my plan, more for your life than the scores of other lives that might be lost _if my plan failed_." Dumbledore sighed heavily, but when he looked at Harriet, he was smiling. "I acted exactly how Voldemort expects we who love to act.

"My only defence for this folly? I defy you to find me a person, who has watched you as closely as I have—and believe me, Harriet, I have watched you more closely than you have imagined—or, even, one who has given you even a sliver of my attentiveness, who would not wish to save you more pain than you have already suffered in your tender lifetime…I never dreamed that I would have such a person on my hands…

"We come, then, to last year. Despite every effort made by the Ministry of Magic, you learned, shall we say, the rough edition of what happened on Halloween nearly thirteen years ago. I watched you struggle to come to terms with this news. I watched your magic strengthen as Remus Lupin, who came to be regarded by you as something of a friend, brother and confidant together, coached you to repel Dementors and produce a Patronus—to great effect, I might add. I watched you find Sirius, learn what he was, and save him from a horrendous fate…

"Now we come to it—my decision to bring you here, today, to answer that question you asked me three years ago in the hospital wing.

"Sirius realised you were taken too much by surprise by what you learned in the Shrieking Shack. He guessed that you knew little about why your family was in hiding at all. He guessed that you had not been told why Lord Voldemort had been so set on killing _you_ in particular.

"It has been Sirius' unfortunate lot these last few months to try and make an old man see sense." Sirius chuckled softly, and Harriet glanced over at him; his eyes were twinkling again. "It took a long time for him to remind me that I wasn't doing you any favours in prolonging the pain of the inevitable. He reminded me—and this was perhaps a particularly low-blow, but one nevertheless that struck the mark—that I was doing your parents' memory a dishonour by keeping from you the reason behind their sacrifice, the reason why they found it necessary to value your future above their own lives."

Sirius unstuck two round rhubarb-and-custards and handed one to Harriet: She popped it into her mouth and stared at Dumbledore, willing him to go on.

"Well," Dumbledore sighed, "young though you may be, in the three short years that I have come to know you, you have already proved yourself exceptional…I have watched you struggle under more burdens than any student who has ever passed through this school, and now, I am afraid I must place yet another on your shoulders, the biggest one of all… Know this, though—"

"The people who love you will always be here to help," Sirius said passionately, clutching her hand, and giving her a look so full of emotion that Harriet couldn't help staring. "In any way possible."

"I could not have said it better myself," Professor Dumbledore said, sifting through the little silver dish of sweets, and added, "Even if you had let me." Professor Dumbledore sighed and got to his feet.

"Now comes the practical part of our lesson, which we must attend to before we can proceed with anything else. You will permit me, I hope, to transport us to London."

"Er…" Harriet glanced at Sirius.

"Unfortunately our destination would make it imprudent for Sirius to accompany us," Dumbledore said. "We should be no great while…and, in the meantime Sirius, I believe _this_ may keep you occupied until our return." With a wave of Dumbledore's unique wand, something large and heavy-looking appeared in thin air and fell noiselessly to the carpeted floor. It was a large trunk, the lock decorated with a crest—werewolf and dog, jaws locked around the keyhole, and a stag's antlers rising from behind.

"Oh my _gawd_!" Sirius gasped, sinking to his knees before the trunk as if it was a holy shrine. "Where did you _find this_?"

"You left it at Headquarters," Professor Dumbledore shrugged.

"You didn't get rid of it?"

"Oh, I never throw anything away!" Professor Dumbledore tutted. "Well, have fun." Dumbledore caught Harriet's eye and winked, and they made their way to the door.

"Hey!" Sirius barked, and they both glanced over their shoulders. "Take care of my girl."

"To the very best of my abilities, I assure you," Dumbledore swore solemnly, and Harriet smiled and waved at Sirius, kneeling over his trunk. They slipped down the moving spiral staircase. "I would like it, Harriet, if you were to wear your Invisibility Cloak until we are outside the school grounds. I wish to have as few people as possible knowing we are leaving the school grounds." Harriet nodded and pulled her Cloak on.

"Where will we be going?" Harriet asked.

"To the Ministry of Magic, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore said, as they walked downstairs. "To the Hall of Prophecies."

* * *

**A.N.**: Obviously I will be posting the next chapter so as not to leave a cliff-hanger. I hate people who don't update!

* * *


	23. The Ministry of Magic

**A.N.**: The prophecy.

* * *

**The Ministry of Magic**

* * *

As soon as they were outside the grounds, halfway between the gates and the village of Hogsmeade, Harriet was permitted to take off her Cloak, and for the second time, Professor Dumbledore offered her his arm. There was a _crack_ and for the second time, Harriet was forced to experience Side-Along Apparition. It didn't shake her like the first time had, so she didn't stagger into the road outside an old red telephone box.

Harriet wasn't entirely sure what was going on when Professor Dumbledore opened the telephone box, stepped inside, and gestured for Harriet to accompany him. She closed the door behind her as Professor Dumbledore lifted the receiver. She watched him jab at the worn little buttons—_62442_.

Harriet jumped when a smooth, cool female voice filled the booth. "Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business."

"Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, escorting visitor Harriet Potter." Harriet glanced at Professor Dumbledore, noticing he had not specified _what_ she was visiting the Ministry for.

"Thank you," said the voice. "Visitor, please take the badge and attach it to the front of your robes." Something rattled in the coin-return chute and Professor Dumbledore plucked out a small, neat silver badge with the words _Harriet Potter, Visitor_ on it. She pinned it to the front of her Hogwarts robes and listened when the voice spoke again. "Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium."

Then the floor shuddered, and they were sinking; the level of the pavement was rising, and Professor Dumbledore was humming to himself complacently. A dull grinding noise replaced the woman's cool, pleasant voice, and there was only darkness for at least a minute, and a tiny sliver of gold illuminated her feet, rising up her body until her eyes were dazzled by the bright golden glow. "The Ministry of Magic wishes you a pleasant day."

"Oh _my_!" Harriet whispered, traipsing out of the telephone box. Professor Dumbledore gave an appreciative chuckle at her awed stare.

* * *

The Atrium was a long, high-ceilinged hall, the floor highly-polished dark wood that matched the panelling on the walls, in which were set many gilt fireplaces; the peacock-blue ceiling was studded with gleaming gold symbols that flashed and shifted as if they were some great announcement-notice, like the scoreboard at the Quidditch World Cup, though far more beautiful.

In the centre of the hall was a beautiful fountain; a group of golden statues stood in the centre of the circular pool, in which, when they passed, Harriet noticed silver sickles, bronze knuts and gold galleons glinted. A noble-looking wizard was the tallest figure; grouped around him were a beautiful, young witch, a centaur with his bow taut, a goblin, and a house-elf. Only the house-elf's expression of ardent admiration seemed appropriate. Glittering jets of water cascaded merrily into the pool from the ends of the wizards' wands, the centaur's arrow, the goblin's hat and both the house-elf's bat-like ears. A small sign read _ALL PROCEEDS FROM THE FOUNTAIN OF MAGICAL BRETHREN WILL BE GIVEN TO ST MUNGO'S HOSPITAL FOR MAGICAL MALADIES AND INJURIES_.

"I never realised there was a magical hospital," Harriet admitted, pausing to peer at the statues.

"Just the one," Professor Dumbledore said quietly. "St Mungo's relies on donations. It is where Professor Lockhart now resides."

"Professor—_Gilda_ Lockhart?" Harriet blurted, staring wide-eyed at Professor Dumbledore.

"Yes," Dumbledore sighed. "I am afraid that backfiring Memory Charm she tried to use on you, Harriet, completely erased her memory. The Medi-Witches at St Mungo's have had to help her start from scratch."

"Oh," Harriet said quietly. She glanced at the statue of the witch, unable to help thinking the vapid smile she wore was not unlike Professor Lockhart's. She _had_ won the_ Witch Weekly's _Most Charming Smile Award, after all. But she couldn't help think; _Well, thank god it's not me_. Professor Lockhart had intended to wipe Harriet's and Rhona's memories to return back to the other professors, leaving them down there, all for another story about how she had defeated Slytherin's monster, though was too late to save Norah. She had tried to use Rhona's broken, malfunctioning wand to wipe Harriet's memory, and like the slug charm Rhona had tried to use earlier that same year, the spell had backfired.

"I can't imagine Hermes' face if he saw the house-elf," Harriet said, pointing to the elf, unable to suppress a grin as she caught Dumbledore's eye. "He's started a society—the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare. Did you hear about Mr Crouch and his house-elf, after the Quidditch World Cup?"

"Oh, yes, I heard about that," Professor Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare…_Spew_."

"Yeah. I reckon Hermes would have a few things to say about wizards and house-elves being magical 'brethren'," Harriet said darkly. She showed Dumbledore the badge she had pinned on her schoolbag (because she _wasn't_ going to wear it on her robes).

"You are a member of this Society?"

"I'm the Secretary," Harriet sighed, shaking her head as she followed Professor Dumbledore to a desk to the left of an enormous set of golden gates, where a sign hung that read _Security_. "Hermes declared me Secretary."

"Oh, really? Well, it's good to get involved in things, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore nodded approvingly.

"I'd rather be in a Duelling Club," Harriet admitted dully. She'd love to continue learning magic like Remus had taught her.

"Well, perhaps you should form one," Professor Dumbledore suggested. "Harriet Potter, Head of the Hogwarts Duelling Club…You'd be turning members away!" Harriet rolled her eyes, amused, and Professor Dumbledore indicated he should give him her schoolbag. She handed it over, wondering why, and Professor Dumbledore strode up to the desk.

"Good afternoon, Eric," he said pleasantly, and the wizard working on the _Pleasantly Easy _crossword glanced up, did a double-take, and looked as if he'd been caught in bed with twins.

"Er—Professor Dumbledore, sir," he blurted.

"Eric, I am escorting a visitor this afternoon," Professor Dumbledore said pleasantly, gesturing at Harriet. "I would very much like it if we could be in and out of here before the rush-hour begins."

"Yes sir," Eric said, dropping his feet from where they'd been propped up on his desk. "Step over here," he directed, and Harriet stood still while he ran a squiggly sort of golden television-aerial over her front and bag, sort of the wizard equivalent of a Muggle handheld metal-detector.

"Wand, please," Eric said, glancing at Professor Dumbledore before holding his hand out to Harriet. She glanced at her wand, then at Eric, and bit her lip when he dropped it onto a strange set of scales, with only one dish, which started vibrating. Out of a slit in the base, a narrow strip of parchment issued, which the Eric the security wizard tore off and examined. "Eleven inches, holly, phoenix-feather core. Been in use three years. Correct?"

"Yes sir," Harriet said, feeling her face flushed.

"I keep this," Eric said, impaling the parchment on a spike on his desk. "You get this back," he added, handing her back her wand, which she pocketed, and gripped the handle, warmth spreading through her fingertips.

"Thank you."

"Hold on…" Eric's eyes went from the badge flashing on Harriet's chest to her forehead. It was the familiar stop-stare-and-look-up, but Professor had said, "Thank you, Eric," before steering Harriet gently towards the golden gates. There were at least twenty lifts behind wrought-gold grilles, sort of like the lifts in the Muggle film _Titanic_ that made Daisy cry every time she watched it (Harriet had never seen the end of the film, but she could guess!) Professor Dumbledore strode to one of the lifts and pressed the down button with his thumb, and stood back, waiting.

"I got a letter from Remus Lupin today," Harriet said. She didn't particularly like uncomfortable silences.

"Oh, really? How is he faring?"

"Well, he wasn't doing so well over the summer when I wrote to him," Harriet said, "but today in his letter he said Bathilda Bagshot had sought him out to come and live with her, and help her write her next book."

"_Indeed_!" Professor Dumbledore looked very interested about this. "Did he mention what the book was to be on?"

"He said that Bathilda Bagshot wouldn't let him—but I know my parents are mentioned, because she made a point of asking Remus to write that she's going to portray them with the utmost accuracy," Harriet said happily. "And he said an Auror named Nymphadora Tonks comes to visit Bathilda every Sunday for tea, to check up on her."

"Oh, dear Nymphadora!" Professor Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling. "An extraordinarily talented witch. And extraordinarily kind, too. Oh, that's very good. Very good indeed—Oh, I'm glad Bathilda has someone taking care of her. She was ancient even when _I _was a boy!"

Harriet didn't want to seem rude by staring. Dumbledore—_young_? Inconceivable.

The lift clattered to the Atrium and Dumbledore swept Harriet inside with a great gesture. The lift descended one level; "The Department of Mysteries," said the woman, and left it at that. The grille slid open and Professor Dumbledore ushered Harriet out of the lift, into a dreary-looking corridor without decoration or windows, nor any doors that she could see except the one at the very end of the corridor. To this door, Dumbledore led her, and through this door, Harriet walked, into a circular room, completely black. The doors were black, handle-less, the floor and ceiling unmarked; blue-flamed candles branched from between the doors, making it seem as if they were in a black-marble cavern with a deep, glistening lake at their feet.

Professor Dumbledore left the door open and strode purposefully to one across the room. The light it emitted made Harriet's eyes water; it was beautiful, dancing diamond-sparkling light. Blinking bemusedly, Harriet followed Professor Dumbledore into the room; it was filled with _clocks_. All kinds of clocks. And there were several wizards at desks ranging the length of the room, all featuring clocks of different styles, examining the contents of the bell-shaped jar sitting on another table, filled with a glittering wind. Several of the wizards greeted Professor Dumbledore, and a few more gave Harriet curious looks. He stopped them by the bell jar, and pointed out a tiny, jewel-bright egg, borne up on the glittering current.

Harriet watched; as it rose, the egg began to crack in places, then fall apart; a hatchling, ugly and bald, blossomed before her very eyes into a magnificent, tiny hummingbird, its feathers gleaming like gemstones: it grew older, Harriet realised, as it was borne upwards; as the draught swept it down toward the bottom of the jar, the feathers became bedraggled; she recognised the symptoms of a malting bird from Fawkes, but his process of regenerating when it was time for him to die and be reborn had been sped up inside this jar—"It's _Time_, isn't it," Harriet whispered, glancing up at Professor Dumbledore, as the unscathed egg made its way back upwards. "They're studying _Time_."

"And a trickier subject I cannot think to study," Professor Dumbledore nodded, and gestured her onwards; Harriet gave the lovely hummingbird one last glance and followed Professor Dumbledore to the only door at the other end of the hall. "In this next room, Harriet, I must ask you not to touch anything until I ask you, do you understand?"

"Er—Yes, sir," Harriet nodded. She hadn't heard that threat for many years.

Through the door, Harriet found herself in a chamber the size of a large cathedral. There were aisles upon aisles spanning all the way down to the other end, which she could not see, and each of the aisles comprised hundreds upon thousands of glass orbs that glittered in the light of a thousand blue-burning candles. They were varying sizes, dusty, filled with a glittering, shimmering _presence_, like solid and liquid and gas, silvery, floating around inside like the current of wind inside the bell-jar.

"This, Harriet," said Professor Dumbledore, closing the door on the Room of Time, "is the Hall of Prophecies."

"The what?"

"You see all of these orbs?" Professor Dumbledore said, gesturing at the nearest shelf. She noticed each orb had a sliver of parchment on which was written initials, and names. Names she had never heard before. "These are prophecies."

"You mean like—?"

"I daresay, the prediction Professor Trelawney made at the end of last term will be amongst these orbs, somewhere," Professor Dumbledore nodded. "You see the labels? That particular prophecy will read something along the lines of '_S.P.T. _to _H.L.P_, Peter Pettigrew.'"

"So…What are we doing here?" Harriet asked curiously. While this place was strangely beautiful, unlike the Room of Time, it was eerie, too silent.

"These orbs, these _prophecies_, are protected with magic in such a way that they can only be removed by those they are _about_, whom they pertain to," Professor Dumbledore said, striding a little slower than usual so he could talk with Harriet, and not make her run to keep up. "Should anybody else try to claim the knowledge that is not theirs to keep, they shall suffer irreparable madness… We are here, Harriet, to retrieve a prophecy—_your_ prophecy."

"My…_prophecy_?"

"I will explain all once we are back at Hogwarts," Professor Dumbledore said. "Here is not the appropriate setting. But you remember what I said, about touching anything? When I ask, I would like you to retrieve your prophecy."

_I have a prophecy. I had a prophecy _made_ to me, but not one made _about_ me_, she thought, following Dumbledore through the many aisles of predictions. They turned right, and followed the numbers as they ascended, until they had reached row _97_, down which Professor Dumbledore turned, and stopped, a little way down.

Shorter than Dumbledore, Harriet had to crane her neck to read the label at which Dumbledore pointed his wand. Harriet licked her lips and frowned, teetering on her tiptoes.

_S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D_

_Dark Lord_

_and (?) Harriet Potter_

The little glass ball glittered, its strange internal, silvery glow strengthening, as if it knew Harriet was nearby. "If you would, please, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore said, and Harriet glanced at him before reaching up. She placed her hand on the glass orb, expecting it to feel as cool and unnaturally smooth as the crystal-balls in Professor Trelawney's classroom. It was smooth, as crystal-balls, but Harriet almost let go when a glorious warmth, as if the orb had been out in the summer sun all day, thawed fingers Harriet hadn't realised were chilled. She wiped the dust off with her thumb and glanced at Professor Dumbledore, and he held out a little velvet bag. "In here, if you please, Harriet," he smiled, and Harriet glanced at the orb before dropping it into the bag; Dumbledore pulled a silver cord around the neck of the bag and tucked it safely into the confines of his robes.

"And now we depart," Professor Dumbledore smiled, and he led her back along row _97_, back down towards the door into the Room of Time, back through that glittering, golden room, through the black lake-like room, and into the corridor for the Department of Mysteries.

"Perhaps, one day," said Professor Dumbledore, as they ascended back into the Atrium, which was beginning to see a small flutter of activity from the witches and wizards off home early, "you will have a greater opportunity to explore all the Department of Mystery's wonders."

"What—you mean, become an Unspeakable?" Harriet asked, remembering the term Mr Weasley had used for Bode and Croaker at the Quidditch World Cup.

"You've heard the term?"

"Mr Weasley used it, at the Quidditch World Cup," Harriet said, and as they passed through the smaller hall in which the lifts were located, she told him the story of Mr Weasley pointing out various notable personalities, and Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch, as they all used the thoroughfare past their tent to leave the wood.

At the golden statue, Harriet paused. Professor Dumbledore had given her schoolbag back, and she rummaged around until she found her smaller moneybag, in which she kept a few coins in case of emergency, always on her person. She had reasoned with herself that she might never know when she needed to use the Knight Bus again. She tugged out a few galleons and some silver sickles, and Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily as she sighed heavily and said, "I know it was me you were trying to curse in the first place, Lockhart, but I'm sorry it backfired," and cast the coins into the fountain.

Professor Dumbledore looked quite pleased as he offered his arm, and Harriet clamped her hand around his forearm. With a _crack_, Harriet found herself stumbling only slightly, halfway between Hogsmeade and Hogwarts. They went back up to the school, Harriet hidden under her Invisibility Cloak, and Professor Dumbledore admitted them into his office by means of the spiral staircase.

"Oh my—!"

The office looked like it had been ransacked. But, on closer inspection, Harriet saw that the trunk in the middle of the room had merely exploded its contents everywhere. In the thick of it all, grinning from ear to ear, his hands full of parchment, sat Sirius, wearing a black _Aerosmith _t-shirt with the words '_Livin' It Up While I'm Goin' Down_' scrawled across the front in white, with a really cool leather jacket on top, both over his robes, the floor littered with LPs and books and Muggle magazines and old textbooks, Hogwarts robes, and stacks of letters and three enormous great mounds of photographs, heaps of Chocolate Frog cards, piles of letters, clothes and more.

Sirius was grinning—and he smiled wider when he looked up and saw Harriet staring at him—but he had the look about him that Harriet had seen in the mirror last night when she'd finally got to bed: The drained look of someone who had been crying and felt quite miserable.

"Alright, you two?" he smiled, glancing over them. "I'll just clean this up, shall I, Professor?" Harriet stooped and frowned at Sirius as she handed him a tattered copy of _PlayWizard_. "Don't give me that look, Muffet; it was your father's!"

"Oh, that's a really good impression you're giving me of my dad!" Harriet said, helping Sirius clean up the mess; Professor Dumbledore chuckled softly and went to sit behind his desk, examining them over the tips of his fingers, which he had pressed together.

"I'll get this, you sit down," Sirius said, and Harriet stopped, mid-stoop, about to clear up the pile of photographs. She caught glimpses of her father's face beaming up at her and waving, her mother's fiery dark-red hair, even a kind, tired smile from Remus, and went back to her seat in front of Dumbledore, though she cast the pile of photographs a wistful glance before turning back to the professor.

"This," said Professor Dumbledore, placing the small glass orb onto a gold bracket on his desk, "is merely a record of a prophecy held within, kept by the Department of Mysteries."

* * *

**A.N.**: I have always envisioned Sirius as a sort of much-younger, much-more-handsome Steven Tyler. I think it's the grin. Anyway, I added that little bit at the end as a tribute to his Muggle fascination! And it'll come in handy later, all that stuff he's kept—or that Dumbledore has kept for him.

* * *


	24. The Prophecy

**A.N.**: The last few chapters I've updated have all been about the first lesson Harriet has with Dumbledore, and this one explains everything for her. Well, not _everything_. Not about Horcruxes yet, but I'll get there in a bit…

* * *

**The Prophecy**

* * *

"This," said Professor Dumbledore, placing the small glass orb onto a gold bracket on his desk, "is merely a record of a prophecy held within, kept by the Department of Mysteries. The reason for us going to retrieve the prophecy, I will get back to. Firstly, though, I will tell the story of how I came to hear the prophecy, and how the repercussions will reverberate through the rest of your life…

"On a cold, wet night, fifteen years ago almost, I made my way to a private room above the bar at the Hog's Head inn, in Hogsmeade. I had gone there to meet with a hopeful applicant for the post of Divination teacher. Though I was disinclined to allow the subject to continue, I nevertheless met with the lady—she was rumoured to be the great-great-granddaughter of a very talented, very famous Seer, Cassandra Trelawney." Here, Harriet had to roll her eyes—_Professor_ Trelawney.

"You, Harriet, who have spent a year under Professor Trelawney's tutelage, will understand when I say I was disappointed; there seemed very little trace of the gift in her at all. I informed her, as politely as possibly, I hope, that I did not feel she was suitable for the position. It was when I turned to leave that Professor Trelawney, whom I believed quite unremarkable, made the following prediction—"

Professor Dumbledore moved the orb to the middle of his desk and tapped it with his wand, frowning resignedly. From the very heart of the orb, Professor Trelawney's voice—mutilated into the harsh, raw tones Harriet recognised from last June—spoke, filling the crevices of the office, as if she was the Ministry Welcome-Witch.

* * *

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have twice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…and the Dark Lord shall mark her as his equal, but she will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…She is coming…_"

* * *

The silence within the office was thicker than cold custard. The orb returned to its dull lustre.

'_Born to parents who have twice defied him…as the seventh month dies…mark her as his equal…_' she repeated to herself. Her birthday was the last day of July. By coming after her, trying to kill her, Voldemort had left physical proof that he had 'marked her as his equal'. She knew nothing about her parents, but there was no mistake Trelawney meant her. _But…'neither can live while the other survives'…_ That sounded as if…

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harriet said slowly, glancing up, and noticing Dumbledore's eyes were still fixed broodily on the orb. "It…did that mean…what did that mean?" He sighed very heavily, and Sirius took her hand.

"It meant, my dear one," Dumbledore sighed heavily, looking older than she had ever seen him, "that the person who has the only chance of conquering Lord Voldemort for good—who was fated to do so before she was even born, was born at the end of July, fourteen years ago. This girl was born to parents who had already defied Lord Voldemort twice."

"It means me, doesn't it," she sighed. So this was it. The reason why Lord Voldemort had murdered her mother and father, had tried to kill her—was because if he didn't, she might one day have grown up to kill _him_.

"Oddly, it may not have been you. We may never have had this conversation. You may, we could go so far to say, have attended the Quidditch World Cup with your parents this summer, not Rhona's."

"What do you mean?"

"Sybill Trelawney's prophecy could have applied to two magical girls, both born at the end of July—both of whom had parents in the Order of the Phoenix—do you know—? Yes. Both sets of parents had narrowly escaped Lord Voldemort twice. One little girl was you, of course…the other was Norah Longbottom."

"_Norah_!" Harriet blurted, gaping. Norah. Kind, clumsy _Norah_, who went to pieces over a Shrinking Solution because she was petrified of Professor Snape. Norah, who had been possessed by Tom Riddle two years ago…Norah, who had been raised by her grandmother, her father's mother. "But…Norah's parents are…I mean, she was raised by her grandmother."

"Ah…but that is because of something that occurred _after_ the downfall of Lord Voldemort at your hands, after he had marked _you_ as his equal without knowing the repercussions of his attack."

"But—so why did he choose _me_?" Harriet asked. "We were only babies, why'd he bother attacking us—_me_?"

"Ah—two questions," Professor Dumbledore said quietly, offering the dish of rhubarb-and-custards. "The first—Why Voldemort chose you. The full explanation can be given by Voldemort alone, so therefore we must suffice ourselves with my guess. Voldemort chose the girl whom _he_ believed—this is very important—_he believed_ would be the most danger to him. He chose, not Norah, who had been born a pureblood, but _you_. One pureblood parent, the other, Muggle-born. A half-blood, like Voldemort himself, whose own father was a Muggle."

"So…because he picked me…that means the prophecy was changed to be about me," Harriet said slowly, remembering the question-mark on the orb's label in the Hall of Prophecies.

"Yes. In choosing to attack you that Halloween night, Voldemort did not kill you, but gave you that scar. He gave you powers, a future. He gave you what you needed to escape him not once but _thrice_. Something neither of your parents, nor Norah's, ever managed."

"But why did he do it, then, if he knew—unless he _didn't_ know," Harriet stared, the clogs clunking together. Dumbledore smiled, as if greatly pleased.

"You will, I hope, remember this the next time you go into Hogsmeade," Dumbledore said, "but the Hog's Head attracts a rather…more _unique_ clientele than Madam Rosmerta's well-loved establishment. As I found to my cost that evening with Sybill, it is a place one is never safe in assuming one is not being overheard. My—our—one great stroke of luck was that the eavesdropper was found out and promptly thrown from the premises. He left, to report to his master all that he had managed to hear before being found out. He only heard the first part—'_the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches…born to those who have twice defied him, born as the seventh month dies…_' Voldemort's spy did not hear the rest, therefore, could not warn his master against the very great danger to himself should he attack you. Voldemort never knew, as you correctly guessed, that there was a risk, a risk of transferring his power to you—he did not know then that you would have '_power the Dark Lord knows not_'. He found that out to his cost twice, in attacking you after the murder of your parents, and then in your first year, when he found he could not bear to touch you, or suffer horrific pain."

"Love," Harriet mumbled to herself.

"Hm?" Sirius spoke up for the first time since telling her to sit. He stroked his thumb against the back of her hand, gazing at her inquisitively. She had to force herself to speak.

"The power I have—it's love, isn't it. His attack gave me that power because it forced my mother into self-sacrifice," Harriet said, her voice small but strong; she was reminded of Norah in Moody's lesson.

"In the Department of Mysteries, there is a door kept locked at all times. Inside it, a force is contained that is at once more wonderful than life, more terrible than death," Professor Dumbledore said quietly, his eyes burning with intensity. "It is the power held in that room, Harriet—love, as you correctly surmised—that you possess in such quantities as makes you tremble with it sometimes at the intensity. This power Voldemort possesses not at all, nor ever has. This power drove you, two years ago, to save Norah from almost certain death at the hands of Tom Riddle. This power drove you, only in June, to save the life of a veritable stranger."

For a long time, there was silence. When the dinner bell rang to signal the end of afternoon lessons, Harriet jumped, her heart doing funny things. She glanced at Sirius, who might've been asleep, and then at Dumbledore.

She had come to her conclusion. There was nothing for it; she had been fated for this role before she'd even been born.

"So…" she began, with a soft sigh, "what must I do?"

* * *

When she glanced up, she saw Sirius' expression—he looked half-admiring, half heartbroken, his eyes shining, and he held her hand very tight.

Something glittered on Dumbledore's wizened cheek when she looked at him; the tear fell into his silvery beard.

"My—my dear girl," he heaved a tearful sigh. "You can learn everything there is to know about children in a month, and yet after a hundred years, they can still surprise you! You sit there, before me, accepting your fate with the composure of a woman, and the backbone of both your parents…Next lesson, we will continue. I think you have quite enough to think about already…Now, I do believe the house-elves have prepared your favourite soup for dinner—Stilton and broccoli, am I correct?"

Harriet realised she was being excused. She didn't argue. But there two things she wanted to know before she left.

"Professor…what happened to Norah's parents?" she asked quietly, her bag in her lap.

"Has Norah never told you?" Professor Dumbledore asked. He sighed heavily, eyeing her inscrutably. "Soon after Lord Voldemort's downfall, his supporters started to wonder _how_ it could have happened. Those closest to him knew of the prophecy. They knew Frank and Alice Longbottom's daughter had been one of the potential targets…A group of Death Eaters—Rodolphus, Rabastan and Bellatrix Lestrange included—captured the Longbottoms," he sighed heavily, and when he spoke again there was bitterness in his words Harriet had never heard there. "By means of the Cruciatus Curse, the Longbottoms were tortured into insanity…" Harriet's mouth opened in horror; _That's why she was so upset when Moody showed us_… "They now live in St Mungo's Hospital. I believe Norah visits them with her grandmother…They do not recognise her…Much like your own excellent parents, the Longbottoms were both very talented, very powerful and very _popular _wizards. Their attacks came just when all was thought to be safe. And, like your own parents, their attack caused a wave of fury such as I have ever known.

"I ask that you please not speak of Norah's parents to anyone," Professor Dumbledore said softly, and Harriet nodded readily. "It is her right to tell people, when she is ready."

Harriet nodded again, and eyed the orb. "And, sir, why did we have to get the orb, if you already knew what it said?"

"So Lord Voldemort could not," Dumbledore said, shrugging slightly. "If you would, Harriet, I wish to have a word with Sirius."

"I'll meet you downstairs," Sirius said quietly, gazing at her with something close to bemused reverence. Harriet nodded, slung her bag over her head, and closed the door gently behind her. She heard no conversation burst immediately into life, and supposed both men wanted to wait until they were sure she was out of earshot before speaking. She stepped onto the first step of the spiral staircase, and allowed herself to be guided by her legs, which seemed to have decided to work alone because her brain was too off-kilter about what she had heard upstairs.

* * *

She walked with the last stragglers down to the Great Hall for dinner, and was just thinking about Norah's parents, and how Norah's family had been torn apart even though Voldemort hadn't chosen Norah, when Norah came running in from the greenhouses, pink-cheeked and exhilarated. Not the way they usually saw Norah after a double-Potions lesson.

"Hiya Harriet!" Norah grinned, waving across the Entrance Hall: Harriet met her halfway across.

"Hi! You're cheerful!" Harriet smiled. "I thought you had double-Potions."

"Oh I _did_! But look—could you hold Trevor for me?" she placed her large toad in Harriet's outstretched hand and Harriet watched her rummage in her schoolbag for something. Out she pulled what looked like a small grey cactus in a little terracotta pot, only it was covered in boils rather than spines.

"What is it? A Bubotuber?" Harriet asked, for the plant, whatever it was, was undulating slightly, just as the Bubotubers did.

"Oh _no_!" Norah gasped softly, her kind, dark-brown eyes widening. "_This_ is a _Mimbulus_ _Mimbletonia_. My Great-Uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria, for my birthday. They're _really_ rare. Professor Sprout doesn't even have one in the greenhouses! She's going to help me _breed it_."

"Er—why?" Harriet asked. Herbology was by far Norah's favourite class—she even beat Hermes at all the practical marking stuff—but for the life of her, Harriet couldn't understand why Professor Sprout would want her amazing greenhouses overrun by this stunted little diseased organ.

"_Tons_ of reasons!" Norah beamed. "It's got an amazing defence mechanism. Watch, I'll show you—" Norah dug out a quill from her bag, stuck her tongue between her teeth in concentration, chose her spot, and gave the _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_ a sharp prod.

Harriet shrieked as every boil on the plant shot out a great long jet of thick, stinking, dark green liquid. It shot out over the floor, hit the doors of the Great Hall, splattered up the wall, but the jets were not quite powerful enough to reach the ceiling. Harriet and Norah both got _drenched_. Harriet stopped dead, eyes and mouth clamped shut, Trevor gulping in her hand, the green liquid seeping through her hair and down her neck.

"Oops. Sorry, Harriet," Norah said quietly. "I haven't tried that before…But Stinksap isn't poisonous, so don't worry."

"Er…Hi Harriet." Even through the layer of Stinksap, Harriet was sure everyone in the Great Hall could feel the heat emanating from her cheeks as she recognised that voice. It was Cedric. Cedric, walking in from Herbology with a group his friends, who included very pretty, very busty and very _tall_ Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw sixth-year girls.

"What's happened?" he chuckled, when Harriet didn't speak.

"It's my _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_," Norah said apologetically. "It's a defence mechanism. I'm sorry, Harriet."

"'S alright," Harriet managed to murmur, trying not to get any Stinksap in her mouth. One of the Hufflepuff girls gasped softly when Norah showed them the _Mimbulus_ _Mimbletonia_ and they fell into heavy discussion. Cedric, taking pity on Harriet, chuckled and tugged out his wand.

"_Scourgify!_" he smiled, and the Stinksap disappeared. "What were you trying to do to that plant, anyway?"

"Hey! I didn't do anything to it!" Harriet said indignantly. Cedric chuckled, winked, and he and his friends made their way into the Hall. Harriet noticed again how pretty his female friends were.

Norah shuffled a little closer to Harriet, her usually vibrant round face strained guiltily. "Sorry," she said again, in a very small voice, glancing from Harriet to Cedric. Harriet shrugged.

"In the great scheme of things, Norah, Stinksap isn't high on my list of worries," Harriet sighed, linking arms with Norah. "So, tell me more about this _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_…"

Norah, when she got excited about something, could talk for England. Harriet sat down with her at the Gryffindor table; Hermes and Rhona came to join them, and they actually had a really lovely conversation. Hermes and Rhona were just as stunned by Norah's good mood, especially since Snape had decided, considering his favourite student to torment wasn't in lesson, excused by the headmaster, he would turn on Norah for consolation at his loss. All the time Norah was talking, Harriet couldn't help thinking…

Would Alice Longbottom, whom Harriet imagined to look something like her smiling, round-faced daughter, have sacrificed herself for her daughter, if Voldemort had chosen Norah? Would Harriet, at this very moment, be anticipating a letter from her parents in the owl-post next morning? Would Sirius the dog be trotting up to her, his lupine face a mask of concern? Would he sit next to her in the common-room, curled up on the sofa, with his head in her lap, allowing her to stroke his ears while she read out of _The Dark Forces_: _A Guide to Self-Protection_ while Rhona and Hermes argued about S.P.E.W. and Norah read up on _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_ from a library book Professor Sprout had suggested? Would _Harriet_ have been the one to be raised by her grandmother—if indeed her grandmother had outlived Harriet's parents—while her parents remained in St Mungo's Hospital, alive, but unable to recognise their daughter?

She watched Norah over the top of her book. Norah, who was happy to be left alone, ecstatic to be invited into conversations, always had a kind word for anyone. Could Harriet see _her_ defeating the darkest wizard in history? The honest answer…_No_, she thought. No, not Norah. Sweet, shy Norah who lacked self-confidence because she rarely heard that she was good at anything. Kind Norah who had been possessed by Tom Riddle because she was so upset about having no friends… Harriet wondered if she'd ever written to Tom Riddle about her parents, whether he knew…or cared.

She couldn't imagine what it was like, being _unable_ to love. Remus had once told her he was astounded she was as normal as she was, considering her upbringing at the Dursleys. He was shocked that she could have been treated in such a way for such a long time, yet she was the most caring person he had ever met. But, coming from Remus, Harriet thought now, from Remus who had a lifetime of hatred and segregation behind him, she knew that sometimes that happened.

* * *

Harriet stayed up very late that evening—Rhona had dozed off and eventually managed to climb up to bed by the time Harriet was writing another letter. She had written several. One to her aunt, who had asked, she knew she had heard it correctly her last night in Privet Drive, for Harriet to write to her. It had taken a lot of rewrites for Harriet to condense everything down into terminology that wasn't cryptic or…_magical_. She tried to write as Muggle as possible, mentioning only that her classes were getting more difficult, that her homework was doubling up in each lesson already, and she'd only been back a week. She _did_ mention Professor Dumbledore telling her why Aunt Petunia had taken her in, thirteen years ago. And she thanked her aunt for it.

She wrote to Mrs Weasley, who always liked to hear from her, and told her about things that she had always imagined she might write to her mother about—how she liked Cedric Diggory's smile, how she'd been mortified this evening when he'd seen her covered in Stinksap. Her feelings on when Moody showed them the Unforgivable Curses. How she was looking forward to the first Hogsmeade visit of the year, and how much she anticipated the Triwizard Tournament, so for once other people could have a shot at the limelight. She asked about Percy, and whether things had calmed down for Mr Weasley—she mentioned the _Daily Prophet _article, and asked how Mrs Weasley was about it.

The last letter was to Remus. By the time she was writing it, the common room was empty and Sirius the man sat beside her on the sofa, a hand on her back, gently stroking his thumb against her shoulder-blade. He didn't ask her how she was feeling, whether she wanted to talk about the prophecy.

"Seems pretty straightforward already," she shrugged, dipping her stylus into her pot of colour-change ink. "No point dissecting it."

"You're being so _calm_ about this," Sirius said gently, eyeing her curiously. "I would have expected you to have a screaming fit or—or _cry_."

"Why?" Harriet asked, almost blotting the sentence on Bathilda. She wanted to know how long Bathilda had been friends with her parents—and asked if Bathilda could write and tell her stories about her parents, how they were with Harriet.

"Your mother cried," Sirius said solemnly. "James…well…James did everything he could to protect you and Lily…after he'd stopped smashing things."

"I get that from him, do I?" Harriet asked dully. Sirius made a thoughtful noise. She glanced at her godfather after drying her last sentence. "What did you and Dumbledore talk about when I left?"

"You," Sirius said, without preamble. "You—and how you're reaction was far more mature than it should be." Harriet shrugged.

"No point screaming over it," she sighed. "Can't change it, can I?"

"You still have a choice," Sirius said quietly. Harriet shook her head, disagreeing. "You _do_—you can choose either to be slain, or to do the slaying."

"I just said—there isn't a choice, is there," Harriet said, staring into her godfather's pale eyes. She was going to defeat the darkest wizard in history. There _was no other option_. She hadn't been alive to know what Lord Voldemort's reign had been like, but she knew damn well she didn't want any more magical children growing up like _her_.

"He was right, you know," Sirius sighed, staring into her eyes, then shaking his head. "You truly are _exceptional_…James and Lily did alright with you."

For the rest of the evening, though they circumnavigated any further mention of the prophecy, Harriet and Sirius talked—Sirius talked, mostly, about Harriet's parents. He told her stories that had happened here, in the Gryffindor common-room, that made Harriet's stomach hurt with laughing, tears sliding down her face. He recollected with perfect acuity the day of her birth, how James, even though they had known Lily would give birth to a daughter, had come downstairs in the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, where Harriet had been born, trembling and pale but grinning, announcing, "It's a little Miss Muffet!" and from that moment on, Harriet's nickname had been Muffet, or Muff.

Gideon and Fabian Prewett had called her that, and doted on her, always making her laugh. Sirius knew Harriet's first word was 'cake' because Alice Longbottom—and here, Sirius' eyes were sparkling, because he had known the Longbottoms and loved them, and saw Alice's kind nature in her daughter—had made a lovely cake in mid-July, the last time they had all been together at Headquarters before her parents went into hiding in Godric's Hollow, to celebrate the approach of the girls' first birthdays. Sirius had witnessed her first steps, because she'd recognised him, smiled, cooed, and lurched off the floor and tottered over to him, beaming. She loved being held by James or Sirius more than Lily, but only Caradoc Dearborn, who was so tall he could hold her in one hand even when she was a year old, could calm her if she was frightened, or tired and miserable. Edgar Bones and his young children could make her giggle so hysterically she set the whole place roaring. Even Alastor Moody—he hadn't had his magical eye the last time Sirius saw him—had a soft spot for Harriet and, indeed, little Norah Longbottom, daughter of one of his team of Aurors. Elphias Doge used to wear a funny hat that Harriet loved to wear as she toddled around while the Order members were in meetings, walking into walls and doors and laughing drunkenly when she was picked up by one of the identical Prewett twins. Dorcas Meadowes, her mother's best-friend from school; Harriet was the last person she said goodbye to before Voldemort killed her personally. According to Sirius, Lily had given Bathilda Bagshot a box of treasures Dorcas had left to her, and to Harriet.

All these people, Harriet noted, though Sirius didn't say it outright, had died. At the hands of Voldemort himself or taken down slowly by a group of Death Eaters, dying like heroes, or simply vanishing. But, as Sirius so sagely said, he didn't like to think of them like that; he liked to remember what a riot they all had, cooped up in Headquarters. They had made the best of what they had, and they were a huge family there, all looking out for each other. Harriet thought about that too, as she slipped upstairs, dog-Sirius jumping upstairs beside her. She would rather have remembered her parents by any memory other than the one she had of them; their deaths. She wished she could remember everyone in the Order arguing, taking turns to bathe her and put her and Norah to bed in the evenings, and who got to feed them. She and Norah, for the first year of their lives, had been raised communally, by a huge family, not just two parents. It was so essential that they grow up; Harriet didn't wonder it had been a group effort.

* * *

**A.N.**: I had to put that bit in about the _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_, because that _would_ be the most humiliating thing to have happen to Harriet in front of Cedric!

* * *


	25. The Imperius Curse

**A.N.**: Since _FanFiction_ decided not to let me upload new documents into the Manager for about three days (which has had me tearing my hair out because _I_ want to update as much as you all seem to want me to update!) I'll update quite a few new chapters (as I'm on number 47!)

I also just wanted to say thank you to _SlytherclawXHuffledor_,_ Bookwyrm86_ and _larkagurl2_, thank you for your kind reviews, and to _Sugarbaby1516_, thank you, thank you, thank you!!!

Also, THERE WILL BE NO CHARACTER DEATHS. I keep getting reviews begging me not to kill anyone off, so I thought I'd put that little note up there! If you want character deaths, just read the canon books! I'm in Deathly Hallows denial—well, technically in denial from the chapter called 'The Third Task' in _Goblet of Fire_ onwards, so!

I also wanted to get your opinions on a _thought_ I had: J.K. describes Cedric as being excrutiatingly handsome, with very dark hair and grey eyes. And then she _also_ describes Sirius as dark-haired and grey-eyed. Can you see where I'm getting at? What would you think if I added a twist that Mr Diggory isn't Cedric's biological father? Or would that be too weird to have Cedric be Sirius' son? Let me know, please!

* * *

**The Imperius Curse**

* * *

Over the next week, Harriet found herself constantly under watch by Sirius, whether he was in dog-form, trailing her around her lessons, or talking with her after everyone else had gone to bed in the common room. She thought he was probably waiting for the shock to wear off, and have her have a fit during Transfiguration or something. But, like she had said before, that Friday night, there wasn't any point screaming over something she couldn't change. And she _wouldn't_ have changed it, not when she saw Norah looking so happy over her _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_, which appeared to be thriving under her care, as most plants did.

It would have helped, though, if she could have had Quidditch practice. Annoyed, she, Fred and George had a very dark conversation one lunchtime about _why_ it was so essential that the Quidditch House Cup be cancelled for the Triwizard Tournament, when only Madam Hooch supervised—_sometimes_, when murderers were supposed to be out to get one of the star players—the practices. Rhona, perhaps guessing something was up, or perhaps having been told by Sirius that she needed to help cheer Harriet up, suggested some evenings that they go down to the Quidditch pitch for an hour or two, before autumn really fell and they lost sunlight after dinnertime.

But it didn't work; Wood's rigorous, sometimes torturously hard training sessions were always the best cure for a troubled mind, but passing a stolen Quaffle to and from Rhona just wasn't the same. She'd even have been happy for Charlie to accompany them—and she said so in the letter she sent to him in Romania via a Hogwarts owl.

The closest Harriet came to learning how to defeat Voldemort, or at least fight against him, came during the second week of term, on Thursday, during Moody's double Defence lesson. Professor Moody had announced, to their very great surprise and Hermes' disapproving shock, that he would be placing the Imperius Curse on all of them to demonstrate its power, and try and teach them how to resist.

* * *

"But…but, Professor, you said—you used to put people into _Azkaban_ for using them!" Hermes said uncertainly, staring at Professor Moody. He swept his wand in a great soaring arc and the desks all moved to the walls, leaving a clear space in the middle of the room.

"Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like," Moody growled, his magical eye swivelling to rest on Hermes with an eerie, unblinking eye. Harriet stared at him, wondering how a baby could ever _not_ be frightened of him. "If you'd rather experience it for the first time when someone's putting it on _you_—fine by me. You're excused. Off you go."

Harriet and Rhona exchanged an incredulous gape. _Hermes_ kicked out of a lesson! He had only ever missed a lesson on purpose _once_, when he'd walked out of Trelawney's classroom. Harriet still hadn't told Rhona or Hermes about the prophecy: she didn't think their hearts could take the shock. They stared at Hermes, grinning with an incredulous kind of delight, and watched him pack up his things, muttering something about not meaning he didn't want to stay, and left the room.

One after the other, the students in Harriet's class were called forth to the centre of the classroom; Moody put them under the Imperius Curse, and made them do the most extraordinary things. Dean Thomas, always very artistic, was forced to mime painting something animatedly, under the impression, Moody told them, he was standing before a large canvas. Lavender Brown scurried around the room, imitating a squirrel hoarding its nuts. Norah pulled off a spectacular display of gymnastics she would _never_ have accomplished in her normal state. Harriet couldn't help laughing when Rhona had to skip around the room in a jaunty waltz with an invisible partner, singing the national anthem word-perfectly. But Rhona was the only one, when the curse was lifted, who didn't fully recover from its effects; she was still humming, and she skipped every few steps.

"Potter, you next," Moody growled, pointing her into the middle of the room. Dreading what she would be forced to do, Moody hit her with the curse.

It was _fabulous_. The escape she had longed for had come; everything, every thought, every care, every anxiety, was wiped away with a gentle cloth that left everything warm and fuzzy and oddly contented. She stood, immensely relaxed, vaguely happy, and only dimly aware of the many other faces turned to watch her.

Then, as if from the end of a very long tunnel, she heard Mad-Eye Moody's voice. "_Jump onto the desk, and sing Jerusalem_."

Harriet bent her knees, ready to spring, halfway through the first line—"_And did those feet in ancient time, Walk upon England's mountains green_"—when another voice spoke up quietly, but strong.

_Why am I doing this? Quite silly, really. What's the point?_

Moody's voice spoke up again. _Jump onto the desk. Keep singing._

_No_, snarled the second voice indignantly. _I'll look like a right numpty!_

_Jump onto the desk…Sing…_

_No. I don't _really_ want to, thank you._

_Jump—now!_

What she felt next was considerable pain. She let out a choked yell that began as "_And was the holy laa-argh_!" and ended with a scream as she head-butted the nearest desk, toppling over it, her knees cracking on the wood and the stone floor.

"Now, _that's_ more like it!" Moody roared, and everything came into high definition again. Sound and colour were switched back on. She remembered exactly what had happened and the pain in her head and knees doubled. "Potter _fought_—she _fought_ it and she damn near beat it! Potter, you're trying again. The rest of you, pay very strict attention to her eyes. That's where you see it, the eyes. Very good Potter, very good indeed. They'll have trouble controlling _you_…"

By the time Harriet hobbled out of the lesson an hour later, clutching her pounding, abused head, she had successively thrown off the Imperius Curse not once but twice: Professor Moody had insisted, even when she'd busted her head open tripping over the hem of her robes and trying not to do a sequence of ballet moves and blood had been gushing out of her, that she continue going through having the Imperius Curse put on her until she could throw it off completely.

* * *

"The way he talks," Harriet groaned, her back twinging as Rhona (still skipping on alternate steps) escorted her up to the Hospital Wing before dinner, "you'd think we're all going to be attacked any second."

"Well, when Moody was Head of the Auror Department," Sirius sighed, supporting Harriet's other side once it was safe for him to take his human form, and giving her sympathetic glances, "you might well have been." Sirius had started sitting in lessons with her—the professors, even tiny Flitwick, liked him, as he didn't cause any obstructions sat in the back corner so he could watch—and he had watched silently from the back of the classroom as Harriet was put through her paces seven times. Each time save the last two, Harriet had injured herself.

"Yeah, but talk about _paranoid_," Rhona said, hoisting Harriet back off the floor as she slumped. "It's no wonder they were glad to be rid of him at the Ministry. You heard what he told Seamus, about what he did to that woman who shouted 'Boo' behind him on April Fool's? You have to draw the line _somewhere_…"

"And when are we supposed to have time to read up on the Imperius Curse," Harriet pouted. Only earlier this morning, Professor McGonagall had issued them a monumental amount of homework on how to correctly transfigure a hedgehog into a pincushion, something only Hermes had managed completely, though Harriet had come close; her pin-cushion still had legs. "We've already got that essay for Binns on Goblin Rebellions—_and_ Snape wants us to research antidotes…reckon I'll actually put effort into that, he'll probably try to poison me…"

"You're nearing your O.W.L. year," Sirius said sagely, though his eyes glittered with something close to deep vindictiveness when Harriet said this. She had yet to see Sirius in close proximity with Snape. Perhaps Professor Dumbledore thought it best they not be close together, not even when Sirius was a dog. She knew Dumbledore had told no-one about Sirius being a dog. "Things are bound to get more difficult. You're lucky—Divination is a doss. James and I only took it for the tea."

"And the naps," Harriet agreed. But as she sank onto the cot in the hospital wing, (Sirius waiting outside as Padfoot) while Rhona went to get Madam Pomfrey, she couldn't help feeling that there was _some_ point to Divination. If not the class, then Professor Trelawney. She couldn't decide whether she was resentful towards Trelawney over the prediction or…anything else. If she hadn't been witness to the prediction she'd made last year, Harriet would have told Professor Dumbledore she thought the whole prophecy was a joke…but it wasn't.

And she wasn't any nearer to defeating Lord Voldemort because she had yet to receive another invitation to Professor Dumbledore's study.

* * *

A notice went up during the second Friday of term; the first Hogsmeade visit would be next Saturday, and still, only third years and above with permission were allowed to go down to the village. This made Norah, who had been unusually chipper the entire week both because of her _Mimbulus_ _Mimbletonia _and the return of their first piece of Herbology homework—an essay on the uses of Bubotuber pus—which had got a better mark than Hermes on it (an O.W.L.-level Outstanding,) unhappy. Due to her involvement in Sirius gaining entrance into Gryffindor Tower—even if it hadn't been to her knowledge, for Crookshanks had stolen the passwords from her bedside cabinet—last year, which had led to Rhona waking and finding him standing over her with a great knife, Norah had been forbidden access to the village since last February.

She had received a Howler from her grandmother that week, and she was so upset that she couldn't go to the village, and in today's lesson let Professor Snape get to her so much that she left double-Potions on Friday in tears. Harriet, too, was on the verge of tears because Snape had decided, as he had missed out last week, he would put in twice the effort to make her feel about three inches tall. She was almost in tears not because of her feelings being hurt, but out of desperation, because she was trying so hard not to give Snape an excuse to give her detention; she couldn't retort, though her brain was teeming with insults. She was bellowing herself hoarse at Hermes and Rhona, who took it in their stride, and Rhona added insults and methods to achieve dismemberment in the most painful way possible. As soon as she was sat down at the Gryffindor table, she tore a sheaf of parchment from her bag, and started writing down all the ways she would like to see Snape die.

"Sometimes I even _dream_ about him dying!" Harriet growled, scribbling furiously all over her paper. "Being cut up by helicopter propellers and being _poisoned_."

"Harriet! We thought we recognised your dulcet tones," George said, falling in beside Harriet at the table.

"Yeah, don't keep it all bottled up, Harriet," Fred Weasley intoned, nodding sagely. "It's not good for digestion…" He and George peered at the parchment which Harriet was fast filling up with ideas.

"It's good to have a healthy outlet," George said vaguely, patting Harriet on the back as she tore across the parchment, her expression vindictive, her eyes glittering like a woman possessed.

* * *

It was very lucky she had put so much creativity into the manner of Snape's death, for, on Monday, Professor Trelawney was so delighted with their predictions that she read out great portions of hers and Rhona's predictions, commending them for their "un_flinching_ acceptance of the _horrors_ that await you!" She thought the class needed to be excused early, because when she read out Harriet's prediction of being attacked by Smoads, not only was Rhona's face shining with tears, but Seamus', Dean's, Norah's—even _Lavender _was crying with silent laughter because they all knew damn well that there was no such thing as Smoads—though Norah assured Professor Trelawney with the utmost sincerity that there were, and they lived off _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_, owing to the plant's rarity, but the manner in which Harriet had written of her dismemberment had Seamus howling with laughter as he tripped down the ladder. Professor Trelawney had asked them all to write predictions for the following month, and the rest of the class—well, Seamus and Dean and Norah—had a fabulous time picking out the method of their deaths from the list Harriet had written up whilst planning to murder Snape in his sleep.

"With _shampoo_?" Seamus asked, arching an eyebrow at Harriet and laughing.

"_Pink_ shampoo, strawberry-scented, with _lots_ of _bubbles_!!" Harriet said passionately, and Seamus and Dean both laughed as Professor Snape billowed past like an overgrown bat.

"Hey, Harriet, have you seen this yet?" Dean asked, producing something from his schoolbag. It was another large sheaf of parchment, highly coloured. Harriet took the paper, took a swig of pumpkin juice, and spat it out all over Norah so she didn't get it on the drawing.

"Oh! Sorry Norah!" she giggled softly, pointing her wand and saying "_Scourgify_!" She had been practicing that since Cedric Diggory had used the charm on her and Norah after the Stinksap incident.

The drawing was of a dragon. Only, given the size of the pure-white ferret it kept chasing, Harriet recognised it was a baby-dragon, or at least, "a pygmy dragon," Dean explained. "Look at its eyes."

The pygmy dragon was black; its scales looked like individual black opals, with lethal, razor-sharp edges. On its forehead was a tuft of jet-black hair, as at the end of its tail, and its large, slanting, almond-shaped eyes were a very intense shade of green. There was a very small scar, a vivid fuchsia-red, on its forehead with the tuft of hair just covering it slightly. Dean had given the pygmy Harriet-dragon a bed, like a dog's bed, with a blanket and pillow, and there were several eggs piled up inside it, each a different jewel-bright colour, with the developing embryo inside just visible with spiny wings. As Harriet watched, the pygmy Harriet-dragon had returned to bed. The pure-white ferret came up to her, crawled all over her, tugged the blanket off her and started popping in and out of focus amongst the dragon's eggs. The Harriet-dragon chased the ferret around before finally snapping it up in her jaws and shaking her head vigorously, as a dog with a rat would, sending blood spurting everywhere.

They all glanced up as Draco Malfoy's drawling voice filtered over the heads of the crowd; they caught each other's eyes and howled with laughter, until tears were pouring fresh down their faces again, dripping into their beef stew.

At times like this, it was easy to forget about the prophecy. It was easy not to remember that, in the end, she had to kill someone. It was easy, too, not to remember that, had things been different, Norah might have been sitting here the orphan.

Still hiccoughing, while the rest of the Hall wondered what could possibly be as funny as to make them fall out of their seats and cling to each other, someone—little Dennis Creevey—came hopping up to her eagerly, a scroll clutched in his hand. He beamed at Harriet and dashed off as soon as he had delivered the note, his face flushed.

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_I would like it if our next meeting will take place tomorrow evening at six p.m., after dinner. I do not plan on taking you out of the castle, yet as a precautionary measure, I still wish you to carry your Invisibility Cloak on your person at all times._

_Hoping you are enjoying yourself,_

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Albus Dumbledore._

_P.S. I do enjoy Drooble's Best Blowing Gum. The bubbles are quite remarkable_.

* * *

Harriet glanced up at the staff table and noticed Professor Dumbledore watching her, smiling warmly. She smiled back and turned back to Rhona, who was arguing with Seamus over the prospects of the Chudley _Cannons_—"There's no _way_ they'll get out of the bottom of the league! They're defence is too poor!" "How can you say that, when the Harpies have been missing their best player due to injury for a month already!"—and continued to enjoy her dinner, with Dean teaching Norah how to draw little comic characters to great effect—by the end of dinner, Dean had created uncannily accurate comic characters of all of them.

"Oh I _wish_ I could have a copy of these," Norah laughed softly, beaming at her little Mini-Me portrait: Dean had got Norah's shy, bashful smile down to a tee, had her holding her _Mimbulus_ _Mimbletonia_, and had Trevor poking out from under her hat, her little crystal Remembrall rolling at her feet with the Gryffindor scarf her grandmother had sent only this morning from home trailing from her bag. Dean had made all the drawings move, of course, and Norah stumbled on her robes, dropped Trevor and her hat on the floor, and the _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_ exploded Stinksap all over her, leaving only a pair of big brown eyes visible amongst the green.

"Hang on a moment!" Hermes said excitedly, his face gleaming as he poked his wand at Dean's parchment. He licked his lips, squinted and said, "_Effingo_."

"Hey, cool!" Dean grinned, as the parchment, and the drawings upon it, duplicated. Hermes performed the charm several more times and each of them had their own copies of the caricatures. Harriet liked hers; she grinned sheepishly, her vivid emerald-green eyes peeking shyly through her untidy black hair tied into two loose plaits, which suddenly flew everywhere as she pulled out her wand and performed the Patronus Charm to repel a Dementor, her expression slightly crazed and reminiscent of the Harriet-Smoad drawing.

Prongs ran a ring around all of them, and Padfoot's very accurate depiction started gambolling around on the grass of the grounds as Rhona's depiction, in her fluffy purple dressing-gown and pink bunny slippers, leapt into Harriet's arms, a large spider scuttling into the drawing, great jets of tears spurting from her eyes. Drawing-Hermes (who had unusually large teeth just as Hermes did, and a large _S.P.E.W._ badge pinned to his immaculate robes) arched one eyebrow boredly, let out a sigh, closed his enormous book and swatted the spider away with it.

Dean ended up having to add Lavender and Parvati as well; Parvati sat at a small round table draped with jewel-bright tablecloths, seemingly cackling over a crystal-ball, but really peering so deep into a crystal ball that her eyes were magnified sevenfold. Lavender sat, beaming contentedly, stroking a bunny who sat in her lap, surrounded by more bunnies; a fox came into view and Padfoot (or Toby, as the others knew him as) attacked him, to the delight and admiration of Lavender. Even Fred and George made it into the drawing (each of the parchments changed according to the changes Dean made on his original) by whispering conspiratorially, carrying a large box between them, and setting off a magnificent display of dragon fireworks by accident, which left them blackened and smoking, blinking bemusedly, then grinning mischievously.

All in all, the second week of term ended on a high note, despite Professor Snape's best efforts to destroy their weekend high. With the prospect of the first Hogsmeade visit (for everyone except Norah, at least) the Gryffindors all poured into the common room and started to work on their ever-increasing mound of homework. Fred and George didn't help, letting off a ton of _Filibuster's No-Heat, Wet-Start Fireworks_ in the common-room, which made the walls and ceiling explode with colour as if they were at a rave.

Mr Weasley's latest letter to his daughter told Rhona that _Muggle Matinee_ had also been given a slot in the evenings, called _Nightfall with the Non-Magical_, so Seamus retrieved his handheld wireless (which was in constant use during the Quidditch season) and while they all completed their predictions for October, and started work on their research for Snape or did the reading for Moody, they listened to the announcer for _Nightfall with the Non-Magical_ as she announced the musical line-up and a talk with a Head of the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, which Hermes made everyone shut up for so he could hear, as it would help him with his Muggle Studies homework.

"Hermes—_you're Muggle-born_!" Rhona said, not for the first time, probably not for the last. "You don't need advice on fitting in with Muggles." Hermes made no comment, but handed Rhona her copy of _The Dark Forces_ which she had yet to crack open.

* * *

**A.N.**: Awaiting reviews on your opinions of the chapter and what I wrote in the first A.N. at the top of the page (regarding Sirius and Cedric!), _mellowenglishgal_.

* * *


	26. The Pensieve

**

* * *

**

The Pensieve

* * *

After dinner on Saturday, Harriet made her way up to Professor Dumbledore's office; Harriet and Rhona accompanied her, and she only shook them off (because she had yet to tell them about the prophecy, and they had forgotten she hadn't told them what happened at her first lesson until now) when she noticed it was five minutes past six.

"I've got to go," she called, running down the corridor to the gargoyle. "Drooble's Best Blowing Gum." She ran up the moving staircase (which made her a little dizzy after dinner) and she knocked on the griffin-shaped knocker.

"Come in," said Professor Dumbledore, and Harriet ran into the study.

"Good evening, Professor, I'm sorry I'm late," she panted. "I got caught up with—"

"Mr Granger and Ms Weasley wish to know what you learned during our last lesson," Professor Dumbledore said, and Harriet stared.

"Er…Oh," realisation hit her, "the _watching_ thing." She remembered Professor Dumbledore said he had been 'watching her more closely than she could have imagined' and, for a few seconds, that made her stomach lurch, wondering what else he knew.

"Yes…and I heard your conversation whilst walking up to my office," Professor Dumbledore said blithely, smiling.

"Oh."

"You have not told them," Dumbledore said quietly, but Harriet could detect a faint note of disapproval. "I thought they would be the first ones you turned to."

"I don't want to…_scare_ them," Harriet said quietly.

"That is understandable," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "Understandable, but inadvisable. You _need_ your friends, Harriet. Without the people we love, we have nothing." Even though he spoke gently, almost as if to himself, Harriet knew she was being scolded.

"Um…yes," Harriet said, not knowing whether she should give him a prod, as to why she was here. It was Saturday night; she still had ten more pages to read from _The Dark Forces_ on the Unforgivable Curse and she really wanted to listen to _Nightfall with the Non-Magical_, which began at ten o'clock.

"Take a seat, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore said, smiling. "Would you like some Drooble's?" Harriet smiled and reached into the little silver dish, which now had a mound of small star-shaped pieces of bubble-gum the colour of bluebells inside it, picked out a piece of gum and popped it into her mouth. The sweet, tart juices of ripe blueberries filled her mouth and she chewed, swallowing the flavour. She watched Professor Dumbledore walk slowly to a black glass-fronted cabinet, and retrieve a shallow stone basin, etched around the rim with ancient runes and symbols, and whose contents glowed silvery like the innards of the prophecy-orb, which, Harriet noticed, wasn't on Professor Dumbledore's desk any longer.

"Do you know what this is, Harriet?" Dumbledore asked, as he set it down on his desk; Harriet shook her head. "This is a Pensieve. I sometimes find that there are too many thoughts and far too memory memories in my head, fighting for dominance. At such times, I take out my Pensieve; it allows me to siphon thoughts and whole memories, to store them until I was to peruse them again. It helps me to see patterns, you see, and links between particular events."

"Do you mean events like…the Quidditch World Cup?" Harriet asked, her eyes on the glowing silvery _stuff_ inside the bowl. "And the Dark Mark and my dream."

"Exactly," Professor Dumbledore smiled. "It is a most curious object, and one in which our lesson this evening lies."

"You mean we—we're going _in there_?" Harriet asked, raising her eyebrows at the basin.

"Certainly," Dumbledore smiled. "This evening, we will be taking a trip down Bob Ogden's memory lane."

"Who was Bob Ogden?" Harriet asked.

"Mr Ogden was an employee of the Ministry of Magic," Dumbledore said, taking a delicate crystal phial from a deep pocket of his robes, which contained a swirling silvery-white substance like that of the Pensieve. "He died quite some years ago now, but, before he did, I managed to coerce him to confiding in me this memory, which took place during his years as the Head of Magical Law Enforcement.

"I will go first, to show you how it is done," said Dumbledore, "then you follow me directly, please." Harriet nodded and watched carefully as Dumbledore lowered his face to the surface of the silvery substance, then seemed to dive headfirst. Harriet shook away thoughts that the basin couldn't _possibly_ be that deep, and did what she was told and followed, if warily.

* * *

Harriet felt herself being pitched forwards, as if the floor of Dumbledore's office had suddenly tilted, and her stomach lurched as she appeared to be falling through darkness. She blinked when everything settled down, but it was still gloomy.

They were in a hovel. It was the most downtrodden place Harriet had ever set foot in, in such a state of squalor that she could hardly believe anyone actually _lived_ in it. Even the Hut on the Rock she and the Dursleys had stayed in during their wild-goose chase from Hagrid the week of her eleventh birthday had _nothing_ on this dump.

But people _did_ live here. The smoky fire was crackling and on the heart, a cross between an extremely unkempt man and some sort of overgrown baboon with small, mean dark eyes that looked opposite ways sat in rags, letting a thin, glistening adder slither between his thick fingers.

"Er…"

"We find ourselves in the residence of a family called Gaunt. They live just on the other side of the valley of a Muggle village named Little Hangleton. This is the son, Morfin," Dumbledore said quickly. Morfin began to speak, just as the front-door of the cottage opened.

"_Hissy, hissy, little snakey,_

_Slither on the floor,_

_You be good to Morfin,_

_Or he'll nail you to the door._"

The two men who entered the cottage could not have been more different. Harriet guessed instantly that the wizened one with the long, heavy arms (who reminded her of a powerful but aged monkey) dressed in rags was Morfin's father, Mr Gaunt. The other man was quite as odd to look at, if only because of the state of his clothing. Like the wizards at the Quidditch World Cup, he had done a very poor job of trying to dress like a Muggle—a frockcoat and spats over a striped old-fashioned bathing-suit, with bottle-cap glasses so thick his eyes appeared tiny and mole-like. This was undoubtedly Bob Ogden, as he looked so completely out of place.

There was a scuffling noise in the corner beside the open window. Harriet jumped, realising rather guiltily that there had been another person in the room before Mr Ogden and Mr Gaunt had entered. A girl with a dull, heavy face and Morfin's wayward eyes stood by a grimy stove, in a tattered grey dress the colour of the wall behind her. She looked cleaner than both Mr Gaunt and Morfin, though ten-times as defeated.

"M'daughter, Merope," Mr Gaunt said carelessly, when Mr Ogden said a cheerful, "Good morning!" to her, as if to inspire some life back into her. Merope said nothing, but turned to the shelf above the stove and moved things about.

"Mr Gaunt—to get straight to the point," Mr Ogden said, pulling out a scroll from his pocket and unfurling it, "your son, Morfin Gaunt, has broken Wizarding law by using a hex or jinx on a Muggle, which caused said Muggle to break out in extremely painful hives."

Morfin giggled.

"Morfin gave a Muggle what for! So what? That against the law now?" Mr Gaunt snapped irritably.

"Yes, Mr Gaunt," Ogden said tartly. "It is."

"And what's that?" Gaunt snarled, staring at the scroll in Ogden's hand. "His _sentence_."

"We have _hearings_ before we give out sentences, Mr Gaunt," Ogden said, and Harriet had to admire his composure. She couldn't imagine Aunt Petunia setting foot on the premises. "Your son, Morfin Gaunt, has been summoned by the Ministry of Magic for his hearing, on—"

"Summons? _Summons_!" Old Gaunt roared. "Who are you—you, you _filthy Mudblood_ to _summon_ my son about? Who do you think you are?"

"I am the Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, Mr Gaunt, which means it is my duty to uphold the Statute of Secrecy and to punish those who breach it." For a tiny man, Ogden had a lot of backbone, and he stood his ground as Mr Gaunt bellowed at him, advancing menacingly.

"And you think we're scum, that it, Mr Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad? Scum who'll come running when the _Ministry_ command it! That it? Do you know who you're talking to, you filthy _Mudblood_?"

"I was under the impression," Ogden said, very coolly, "that I was speaking to Mr Marvolo Gaunt."

_Marvolo_! Harriet thought, gasping softly. Marvolo wasn't exactly a common name, but she knew it. She knew it from Tom _Marvolo_ Riddle's diary.

She glanced at Marvolo Gaunt, who appeared to be making an extremely rude finger-gesture at Ogden, but was actually showing him an old, heavy and ugly black-stoned ring on his middle-finger. "Know what this is?" Marvolo demanded. "_Centuries_ it's been in our family—centuries, and purebloods all. The Peverell coat of arms engraved on the stone! Know how much I've been offered for it?"

"It's quite beside the point, Mr Gaunt, your son—"

Harriet jumped, about to spring to help her when Mr Gaunt lunged straight for Merope, as if to throttle her: He dragged Merope by a glimmering golden chain around her neck to Mr Ogden. Merope spluttered and gasped, the chain cutting into her neck. Mr Gaunt shook a heavy gold oval-shaped locket at Ogden.

"_Slytherin's_! Salazar Slytherins! You're talking to the last of his descendents, d'you realise? Not so high and mighty now, are you?"

"Mr Gaunt, your daughter—" Mr Gaunt shoved Merope away from him: She returned to her wall, massaging her neck.

"Now you know, don't you? Know not to talk to us like we're dirt on your shoes!" Gaunt spat at Ogden's feet. Harriet decided at that point _not_ to pursue a career in Magical Law Enforcement.

"Mr Gaunt, your son has broken Wizengamot creed, not for the first time, by accosting a Muggle late last evening," Ogden began again heatedly.

Again, Morfin giggled.

"_Be quiet, boy_." And Harriet realised with a clench of her stomach that he hadn't spoken English—which owed to Ogden's perplexed expression. Morfin, sitting in a filthy armchair with the adder winding through his fingers, fell silent, and Harriet realised.

"Did he just speak _Parseltongue_?" she whispered to Dumbledore, glancing at Merope, with Salazar Slytherin's locket draped around her neck.

"You're keeping up."

"His name—" But Mr Ogden was speaking, and Harriet fell silent to watch him.

"Mr Gaunt, it is clear by your son's attitude that he bears no remorse for his attack on the Muggle last evening—" Mr Ogden broke off, as the merry sound of horse's hooves and delightful, young laughter rang in through the open window.

"My God," said a young, pretty voice with a delicate laugh, "what an _eyesore_!" Morfin rose from his filthy armchair.

"_Keep your seat_," Mr Gaunt snarled, and this time, ready for it, Harriet recognised, through the words she understood, the indistinguishable hisses and rasps that Ogden so very clearly did not.

"Tom, sweetheart," said the pretty voice, "I may be much mistaken, but it _appears_ as if someone has nailed a _snake_ to the door of that hovel!"

"God, don't look at it, Cecilia, darling—that'll be the son of old Gaunt, the old tramp who lives here," said a handsome male voice, young like the girl's.

"_Darling_," Morfin whispered at Merope, his crazy eyes lit with a vindictive flare. "_Her 'sweetheart', he is. Why would he look at you, when he has that rich Muggle from the big town?_"

"_What's that_?" Morfin said sharply, his bright, mean eyes narrowing as he glanced between his children. "_What did you say, boy?_"

A vicious smile spread across Morfin's wicked face. "_Like looking at the handsome Muggle, don't you, Merope? Hang out the window waiting for him to come home, don't you, Merope?_"

"_Hang out of the window for a Muggle?_" Mr Gaunt hissed, and to Harriet, this seemed far more fearsome than his bellowing. Mr Ogden, Harriet noticed, appeared bemused and wary; she was thrown back to the days of the Duelling Club, and Justin Finch-Fletchley's expression when he'd thought she was urging the snake Malfoy had conjured to attack him. "_My daughter, the last pureblood female descendent of Salazar Slytherin—hanging out of a window for a Muggle_."

"_I got him, Father!_" Morfin cackled gleefully, as Merope, now so white Harriet thought she was sure to faint any second, pressed herself against the wall, shaking her head vigorously. Harriet realised she was chewing her Drooble's Gum very fast, eyes flickering from Gaunt to Gaunt, as if watching a very compelling Muggle action film. "_He didn't look so pretty with his hives, did he, Merope_?"

What happened next happened very fast. Mr Gaunt roared and went for his daughter; Mr Ogden raised his wand and sent Mr Gaunt over a chair, landing flat on his back; Morfin roared and surged after Ogden, wand raised and firing off hexes, brandishing a bloody knife. Ogden ran for his life, Merope's screams filling the air, and Professor Dumbledore gestured they should follow in his wake.

Out in the blistering hot sunshine of a forget-me-not summer sky, Harriet had to squint as she followed Ogden up a narrow overgrown path and onto a main country lane. Two horses, one gleaming chestnut, the other a pretty dapple-grey, stood, their owners, a very haughty, good-looking couple who exuded wealth. They both laughed—the dark-haired, handsome man Harriet recognised instantly in particular—rather than helping, as Ogden collided with the flank of the chestnut and ricocheted off into the dust. Ogden was up and on his feet again, the handsome couple's laughter following him as he pelted up the lane. Harriet couldn't stop staring at Tom Riddle Sr.

"I think this will suffice," Dumbledore said quietly, taking Harriet's elbow gently and tugging. She was soaring weightlessly upwards, until next moment she wasn't. She stood in Professor Dumbledore's office, filled with dying, burning sunlight.

* * *

"_Sir_?" Harriet gasped, rushing to her chair as Professor Dumbledore sat in his great throne. "That man—I mean, those men! _Marvolo_! He was Slytherin's descendent—and Tom. Tom _Riddle_. And Merope…does that mean…" A horrible nauseating thought made her stomach turn; as much as she sympathised for Merope Gaunt, she couldn't imagine how in the world handsome Tom Riddle Sr had ever fallen in love with her. Loved her enough to give her a child.

"Tom Riddle, and Merope Gaunt—they were Voldemort's parents, weren't they," Harriet gaped, appalled. "I recognised Mr Gaunt's name—Marvolo is Tom Riddle's middle-name."

"Very good, Harriet," Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively. "I'm impressed. Marvolo, Morfin and Merope were the last of a very ancient Wizarding family made notorious by the vein of instability and violence that strengthened and flourished through hundreds of years of marrying their own cousins." Harriet wrinkled her nose.

"What happened to Morfin and Mr Gaunt—Obviously Merope survived, or she'd never have had Tom Riddle's baby," Harriet said eagerly.

"Mr Ogden Apparated back to the Ministry and returned to Little Hangleton within minutes; Morfin, who had a record of attacking Muggles he felt had ventured too far from Little Hangleton, was convicted by the Wizengamot to three years in Azkaban. Mr Gaunt injured several members of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad and was sentenced to six months.

"A short while later, the tiny village of Little Hangleton enjoyed a tremendous scandal when Tom the squire's son ran away with the Gaunt girl."

"They were _married_?" Harriet asked. Her stomach turned unpleasantly again at the thought of Tom and Merope together. Then she remembered Mrs Weasley telling her and Rhona about a Love Potion she had made whilst at Hogwarts to make Mr Weasley fall in love with her. The effect was that Mr Weasley had got slightly tipsy.

"Did she use magic on him?" Harriet whispered wonderingly. Dumbledore chuckled, very pleased.

"It is my guess that, once her father and brother were safely out of the way, Merope experienced a freedom such as she had never known in her entire miserable existence. It is my guess—and from here on in, Harriet, almost everything is guesswork—that one hot summer day, it may have been very easy for Merope to slip Tom Riddle Senior a Love Potion, disguised innocently as a harmless glass of water as he rode home. A few months after that scene we just witnessed, Tom and Merope had disappeared.

"The shock of Merope's desertion, when Marvolo Gaunt returned from Azkaban, weakened from prison, and learned what Merope had done, may have led to Marvolo's early demise. In any case, Marvolo never saw his son return from Azkaban, and never spoke his daughter's name henceforth. His one great regret? The disappearance of Slytherin's locket."

"Suddenly the Dursleys seem so normal," Harriet sighed, shaking her head. She frowned at Dumbledore. "Didn't Voldemort grow up in an orphanage? He mentioned it, when we were in the Chamber of Secrets."

"Yes, Tom Riddle Junior _did_ grow up in an orphanage," Dumbledore nodded. "Merope Gaunt, horribly weakened by her pregnancy, all her magic sapped away by her husband's desertion, died moments after she gave birth to Tom Riddle's son."

"He _left_ her?" Harriet gaped.

"Mm…I have guessed that, sometime after they were married, Merope might have become…guilty, maybe even ashamed, at enslaving her husband in such a way by magical means," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "It is my guess that she decided to stop feeding him the Love Potion, in the hopes that, besotted as she was, her affections would be returned.

"Nevertheless, several months after Tom the squire's son's disappearance, Little Hangleton received another piece of gossip to circulate the rumour-mill. Tom Riddle had returned. From what the servants at the Riddle home gathered, Tom Riddle said he had been 'hoodwinked' by Merope. It came to be believed in the village that Merope had told Tom Riddle she was to have his child, and for this reason he had married her."

"But she _did_ have his baby!" Harriet said indignantly. She didn't wonder that Merope's magic dried up when she'd had her heart broken.

"Yes, but not until a year after they were married," Dumbledore sighed. "Mr Riddle returned to the great house at Little Hangleton, never spoke of his wife and never bothered to find out what became of his child."

"What a bastard!" Harriet said curtly, shaking her head. "Er—sorry," she added, flushing. She glanced at Dumbledore. "Did Riddle ever marry anyone else—that woman, Cecilia, the pretty one?"

"No, he did not," Dumbledore said with complete certainty. "Tom Riddle Senior remained in Little Hangleton, in the manor house with his parents until, seventeen years later, he and his parents were all found dead in their drawing-room. There was no sign of a struggle to get into the house, no marks or blemishes on the bodies…only the expression of great shock." Harriet stared at Dumbledore. She knew those characteristics—unmarked, unblemished, but unmistakably _dead_.

"Voldemort?" she breathed. It took a second for it to click. "He killed his own _family_?"

"Indeed," Dumbledore sighed, taking a bit of Drooble's gum. "To you, it may sound shocking…to Tom Riddle, as he was still known at that time, well… We must assume he felt it was what they deserved, for abandoning him, and his mother."

Harriet sat thinking for a long time.

"D'you ever wonder what would've happened if Merope had kept feeding Tom Riddle the Love Potions?" Harriet asked quietly.

"Would he, perhaps, have taken his new bride back to his parents' home, welcomed a son, raised him with unconditional love and support?" Dumbledore smiled, eyes twinkling.

"Subjunctive history," Harriet smiled softly, remembering the only film she had ever watched of Daisy's (because Daisy found it boring) that she had ever loved completely—_The History Boys_.

"Come again?"

"Subjunctive history—it's when it's _imagined_," Harriet said, shrugging. "What would have happened if Voldemort had chosen Norah instead of me? I've…been thinking about it a lot this week, subjunctive history."

"And what conclusion have you come to?" Professor Dumbledore asked interestedly.

"Well…I'm glad it's not Norah," Harriet said quietly. Dumbledore smiled softly.

"Thank you, Harriet…I think that is all for this evening," Dumbledore said quietly. Harriet glanced at him. _That's it_? She licked her lips.

"Sir…the memory. It's important, isn't it? That I know Voldemort's past?" she said quietly, not wanting to sound as if she thought she was missing something—the key point.

"Oh, yes, extraordinarily important," Dumbledore said, nodding. Harriet picked up her bag, nibbling on her lower lip.

"Sir…you definitely think I should tell Rhona and Hermes—about the prophecy?" she asked timidly. She didn't want to have to see Rhona's stark face, her freckles white, she didn't want to see Hermes' kind brown eyes grow to the size of dinner-plates and watch the line of colour go down his face.

"It would be doing them a disservice," Professor Dumbledore nodded.

"And, about the—the memory, too, should I tell them that?" Harriet asked.

"Yes. And Sirius, too, if you like," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "But no-one else. It would not be prudent to divulge how much I—that is to say we—know about Voldemort's secrets."

"Alright," Harriet nodded. She bit her lip again and stood up. "Goodnight, Professor."

"Goodnight, Harriet," Dumbledore smiled blithely, as Harriet made her way to the door. Just beside it, partway between the door and the black glass-fronted cabinet in which lived the Pensieve, stood a little spindle-legged table. Unlike the others scattered around the study, which all bore large quantities of delicate-looking silver instruments, this table held only three things. The prophecy orb, on the little gold bracket, clean and glowing, Tom Riddle's mutilated diary, and a very old, very ugly black-stoned ring. The stone, Harriet noticed, was cracked. But it hadn't been that way…

"Professor…this ring?"

"Yes?"

"Isn't…isn't this Marvolo Gaunt's ring—the one he said had the Peverell family crest on it?" Harriet asked, glancing over her shoulder at the professor.

"It is indeed."

"Did you…have you always had it?" Harriet asked curiously.

"No, I acquired it only recently," Professor Dumbledore said lightly. "Just a few days before I came to fetch you to the Burrow." Harriet frowned at the ring, then at Dumbledore.

"Was it cracked when you found it?" Harriet asked. Dumbledore shook his head. Harriet frowned, biting her lip. It sat next to the diary. "Sir…was it like the diary?"

"The diary?"

"Yes—was it full of his memories?" Harriet asked, frowning at the ring.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"Goodnight, Harriet."

"Goodnight, sir." She glanced once more over her shoulder as she pulled the door of the study to; Dumbledore sat in his chair, his spindly fingers touching, gazing up at the ceiling, blowing large bluebell-coloured bubbles and humming softly to himself.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review, let me know what you think. I won't be rewriting all the memories Dumbledore shows her, frankly because I don't have the inclination to!

* * *


	27. Sirius Speculation

**Sirius Speculation**

* * *

She sighed, once on the moving spiral staircase. Chewing her gum, alternately blowing large bluebell-coloured bubbles, she slowly churned over everything she had learned today, and everything she had to divulge to Hermes, Rhona, and Sirius.

She paused outside the Fat Lady's portrait, took a deep breath, whispered, "Balderdash" and was admitted into the common room. Rhona and Hermes, who had occupied the sofa with Sirius, were in the middle of a blazing argument about S.P.E.W.—Rhona still refused to join—and Harriet crept up on them.

"You're _supposed_ to _support_ me, Rhona!"

"Oh, I see—because I'm a woman, I have to _support_ you, a man—you—you _misogynist_! You're the face of the House-Elf Liberation Front and _we_ do all the legwork," Rhona retorted hotly. "Because I'm a _woman_, I'm only fit to hold a bucket."

"It's a _collecting tin_, Rhona, not a ball and chain!" Hermes huffed.

"Yet I'm still underneath you, because _you're_ a man! Talk about liberation for house-elves when _you're_ still segregating _women_!" Rhona said, turning her nose up, crossing her arms tightly across her chest.

"I'm not _segregating you_!" Hermes shouted indignantly. "You're my best-friend—you, and Harriet. I'm outnumbered. When have I _ever_ been allowed to boss you around?"

"Plenty of times!" Rhona laughed.

"Equal rights!" Harriet spoke up passionately. "We want the vote!"

"Harriet!" Rhona and Hermes both whirled around and stared at her.

"How'd it go?" Rhona breathed.

"Later," Harriet said, glancing around; Colin and Dennis Creevey were very close by, watching them eagerly now that Harriet had emerged. So, while they waited for the common room to empty (which didn't take long, as Fred and George let off a couple of dungbombs to celebrate the second weekend of term, though oddly they stayed downstairs to work on a single piece of parchment, as Harriet had seen them do when she'd been working on her predictions last week) Harriet finished her reading for Moody, listened avidly with Hermes to _Nightfall with the Non-Magical_, and was very pleased that Colin got so overexcited about the prospect of teaching Harriet Potter how to develop her camera negatives and print photographs the following day.

* * *

When at last the common room was clear, Sirius returned into his human form and taught them all a useful little charm to get rid of the smell of the dungbombs, and, with his help, Harriet told Rhona and Hermes everything that she _hadn't_ after her first lesson with Dumbledore. If she had imagined her friends' reactions to her dream about Voldemort correctly, she knew they would be nothing to the ones now. And she was right. Rhona was speechless; Hermes started to speak very quickly, rumbling off names of books he thought might help like there was no tomorrow. Sirius had to stop him hyperventilating, and Harriet gave Rhona a good sharp slap.

"So…So that's it, then," Rhona finally breathed, about half an hour after Harriet had finally finished talking. Hermes was still very pale and staring at Harriet as if worried that, if he looked away, she would disappear. "That's the reason he's been after you, all this time…"

"You have to _kill him_?" Hermes breathed, gulping. Sirius had thought it best he use Harriet's wand to conjure a tea-service out of thin air, and the silver teapot poured them all cups of tea in delicate, pretty cups Aunt Petunia would have loved.

"Or be killed," Harriet said, nodding as she sipped her tea.

"You're being very…_matter_-_of_-_fact_," Hermes said softly. Harriet glanced at him.

"I'd've thought you would've admired that," she said quietly. "Seeing as it's a more _manly_ reaction." She glanced at Rhona and caught her eye, winking. A little colour came back to Rhona's marble-white cheeks. Hermes rolled his eyes over his teacup, catching Sirius' eye.

"So…so Dumbledore showed you a memory…about You-Know-Who's parents," Hermes said thoughtfully.

"_Voldemort's_ parents, yeah," Harriet said, glancing at Rhona, hoping to shock her back into reality. It worked; she slopped her tea down her blouse; Harriet pointed her wand at the stained top and muttered, "_Scourgify_!"

"Why, though?" Hermes asked, frowning. "It seems odd."

"Well…I thought so too," Harriet said, and then she told them about Marvolo Gaunt's ring in the memory, and the ring in Dumbledore's office. "…and I asked him whether it had Voldemort's memories in it, you know, like the diary did, but he didn't answer. He just _smiled_."

"Smiled how?" Sirius asked interestedly, cocking his head to one side.

"I don't know, like…like he was _pleased_ with me, or something," Harriet admitted. "'Cos I keep asking him questions that…well, he seems to think they hit the mark."

"Okay…so a diary and a ring," Hermes frowned. "Both belonged, I suppose, to You-Know-Who at some point."

"Perhaps," Harriet said quietly. "I don't think Voldemort was even born when Marvolo Gaunt died…but I suppose Morfin Gaunt took the ring after his dad died, it was a family heirloom…"

"Could Morfin have misplaced the ring, do you think?" Hermes asked thoughtfully. "Or perhaps he sold it?"

"I don't think so. Marvolo was very proud of it—and of the locket. Morfin seemed to be very respectful of his father, if he didn't _love_ him the traditional way," Harriet said slowly. "Marvolo would have considered it a deep insult to their family legacy to sell off their treasures…Morfin was violent, but he wasn't particularly talented. It would have been easy for Voldemort to overpower him with magic if he wanted to, and he could easily have stolen it."

"When would he have taken it, though?" Rhona asked curiously. "_Why_?"

"I don't know," Harriet frowned.

"Perhaps as a sort of…" Hermes glanced up, biting his lip and frowning. "Sirius, d'you reckon murderers—I know he isn't one, Harriet, so don't give me that look, but say if you _were_—d'you reckon you'd have taken mementos or something?"

"Oh, absolutely," Sirius said, shrugging. "Particularly if there was a very complex bit of magic involved. My cousin Bellatrix certainly would have—she'd have wanted to relive the experience…"

"Bellatrix Lestrange?" Harriet said softly, glancing at Sirius. She stared into his face. Did he mean—the woman Dumbledore had mentioned, who had tortured Norah's parents to insanity by the Cruciatus Curse?

"Yes, Harriet, Bellatrix _Lestrange_," Sirius said quietly, and she knew _he_ knew she'd cottoned on to the name. "Narcissa Malfoy's elder-sister. Cissy was the youngest; Andromeda, the middle-sister, she was my favourite; _she_ turned out alright—married a Muggle-born, Ted Tonks."

"_Tonks_?" Harriet had heard that name, too. "Did she have a daughter?"

"Might've done," Sirius shrugged. "I never saw much of her after she disowned the family. Can't blame her from staying away, really."

"So…so you think that—that You-Know-Who might've taken the ring as a souvenir," Hermes said, getting them back to the point. "To remind him of the murder of his father and grandparents."

"Certainly he might've. Reliving their murders would certainly have been something Voldemort would have enjoyed," Sirius said quietly. Hermes and Rhona both winced at the name but Harriet turned to Sirius.

"Voldemort left behind the diary, he wrote it when he was sixteen, as Tom Marvolo Riddle," Harriet said quietly, frowning. "Before he became Voldemort—he opened the Chamber of Secrets. He set the Basilisk on Moaning Myrtle. She _died_, just like his father and grandparents."

"We're forgetting Morfin," Rhona said quietly, glancing from each of them. "What happened to _him_? Did You-Know-Who finish him off, too?"

"I…I don't know," Harriet frowned. "Dumbledore said he got out of Azkaban after his three-year sentence, but I didn't ask what happened to him afterwards."

"Write it down somewhere safe," Sirius said, tugging Harriet's Quidditch-themed homework diary (now packed with assignments) out of her schoolbag (Hermes looked at Harriet with a very approving smile when he saw the diary) and handing it to Harriet. "Make a note of asking Dumbledore at your next lesson. Did he mention when it might be?"

"No, he's sent me notes the last two times," Harriet said, licking her lips as she dipped her quill into her Colour-Change inkpot and scribbled in the top right-hand corner of today's page.

"_How_ could he have put memories into the ring, though?" Hermes frowned, wringing his hands the way he did when he couldn't solve an Arithmancy problem, and was very frustrated. "The diary I can understand, you'd use enchantments and things…"

"Unless they weren't memories," Sirius said softly, frowning.

"What do you mean?"

Sirius gave Harriet a long and searching look before answering, slowly, and with a heavy sigh. "I'm not sure, exactly… Give me a few days…"

* * *

When Sirius had said 'give me a few days' Harriet had thought he'd meant he needed to think things over. No—He disappeared. Several people noticed it, particularly the Creevey brothers, who seemed very disappointed that he wasn't there to play tug-of-war with them on Sunday morning.

"Where d'you think he's gone?" Rhona asked. Harriet shrugged, shaking her head, as they sat at their larger round worktable in the common-room on Monday night. Rhona was working on their essay for Snape that was due in on Wednesday, and Hermes had filled two feet of parchment on the Goblin Rebellion of 1794-5. Harriet sat curled up in her seat, her shins pressed against the edge of the table, frowning deeply at the Marauder's Map. She knew she should be working on reading up on Summoning Charms for Professor Flitwick, but at the moment, she wasn't in the mood.

"I don't _know_," she sighed heavily, glowering at each teeny-tiny dot that moved around the castle. She had been scanning it for the five minutes, while also listening to _Witching Hour_, which was playing relaxing Muggle classical music that was very pretty and very tragic. She just couldn't find Sirius anywhere—but, wait—no, there he was!

_Sirius Black_: She watched the little dot, in a small room the size of the teachers' offices, the other side of the seventh floor. He wasn't moving, just stood or sat in the centre of the room. "I've found him!"

"Where is he?" Rhona breathed, poking her head around to see the Map. Harriet pointed him out. "What's he doing there? That part of the school hasn't been used in ages, Percy told me last year."

"Perhaps it's his room," Hermes suggested, glancing over at the Map. He caught sight of the girls' expressions. "Oh, come on! Dumbledore wouldn't expect him to remain a dog _all _the time, would he? Where does he go when he's not following Harriet around during lesson-time?"

"But he's _always_ with me!" Harriet protested.

"Not all the time. He's never in Snape's lessons," Hermes pointed out.

"Yeah, the one I really need him in so he can grab Snape by the throat and—" She shook her head vigorously, baring her teeth; Rhona snickered, Hermes looked reproving.

"Let's just leave him be," Hermes suggested. But Harriet didn't _want_ to leave Sirius alone; she wanted him back with her. Already she missed having him curled up next to her, stroking his silky ears, scratching his nose. It had been boring, staying up 'til one o'clock doing only her _homework_ last night; Hermes had got so annoyed with Rhona that he'd banished her up to her room to think up an anthem for her _Witches' Suffragettes Society_, of which Harriet was Co-Chairwoman, and the mascot of which were two fiercely beautiful Valkyrie, one redheaded, the over raven, drawn by Dean (Harriet thought he was putting it on, just to impress and flatter Rhona!). So, Harriet had been forced to spend three hours with nobody but Hermes' scratching quill for company whilst she attempted to research antidotes for Snape's class.

She sighed and wiped the Marauder's Map, tucked it into her bag, and retrieved one of the three books Professor Flitwick had suggested they all retrieve from the library on Summoning Charms.

* * *

**A.N.**: Reviews please.

* * *


	28. Nonverbal Spells

**A.N.**: To _SlytherclawXHuffledor_ I'm sorry to say that on chapter 51 right now, I still haven't reached the first task! _But_ that's because Harriet and Dumbledore have gone to the lake and returned with the fake locket! And Harriet's had Occlumensy lessons, been picked for the Triwizard Tournament…well, you'll read it!

Oh—_ErikArden_, I might've said this in a PM, but I wanted to change the prophecy to 'twice defied' so that Cedric doesn't have to die.

On that note, I'd like to ask two things from anyone who's reading and wants to respond: One: to tell me what you'd think of me having Sirius be Cedric's _biological_ father—I've worked it out so that Cedric's birthday is Oct 18th, therefore, being born two weeks late of a perfect nine-month pregnancy, he would have been conceived on January fourth, during the Hogwarts' Christmas holiday. The idea's stuck in my head now, so Sirius is now Cedric's biological father. I've got the story of why planned out already, don't worry!

And second thing—should I keep Regulus Black alive? I promised no character deaths, but I'm not sure how I'd swing it if I kept Regulus alive. It'd be fun to write Sirius beating the crap out of him for being a _good_ person, but I don't know…I'm thinking not…

* * *

**Nonverbal Spells**

* * *

"Hey! 'Scuse me! Oi! Ow!"

"For the love of Merlin, Potter," Rhona rolled her eyes, "you are such a little _first year_!!"

"Hey, hey, hey! I'm not that small!" Harriet balked, glaring up at her best-friend as Rhona navigated the corridor and the dozens of teeming students that swarmed it with perfect ease. Harriet was shoved and jostled every which way, too little to see above most of the crowd of upper students. Finally, she'd had enough.

"_EVERYBODY_ _MOVE!!!!_" she bellowed, and the crowd parted for her, looking surprised. She and Rhona pranced down the open lane towards their Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, the lesson to which they were now extremely late for because Rhona hadn't been able to resist another helping of apple and blackberry crumble at lunch…and Harriet had spotted Cedric across the hall, and hadn't really been able to think of anything else for a while.

"God, I hope he doesn't _do_ anything," Rhona groaned, pushing on the door of their Defence classroom and opening it.

The class was silent, looking at the front of the room intently: Moody stood at the chalkboard, writing something in large, untidy lettering.

Harriet screamed bloody-murder, Rhona echoing her, as an enormous great black snake erupted from thin air and landed with a _bang_ on the stone floor in front of them, its head rising, hissing, ready to strike: still screaming, they did a weird sort of petrified dance and backed away.

"_WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING?_" Harriet shouted shrilly at Moody, clutching her heart and feeling as if she was having a heart-attack, as the class all broke out in laughter. Harriet hissed at the snake to "_buggar off!_" which made it slither back, clearly surprised. Rhona had collapsed, weak-kneed and pale, onto the spare chair by the door.

"You see that?" growled Moody, turning to the rest of the class. "Complete surprise. Sit down," he barked at Harriet and Rhona. "We'll discuss your detentions later." He waved his wand and the snake disappeared.

"Detention! For being attacked by a bloody great snake!" Rhona said weakly, still clutching her heart.

"For being late to my lesson. Sit," Moody growled. Still panting, Harriet massaged her aching heart as she went to sit down beside Hermes, who looked thoroughly disapproving at their lateness, but amused because they'd had the lives scared out of them.

"What you just witnessed," Moody growled, as Harriet and Rhona sat down beside each other at the only remaining desk, "was the use of _nonverbal spells_. Very useful if, like me, you find yourself in a position requiring stealth and the element of surprise." There was a polite knock on the door, and Rhona's elbow slipped surreptitiously from the desk and nudged Harriet. She didn't exactly need the pointer to notice Cedric Diggory standing in the doorway.

"Yes?" Moody growled.

"Sorry—we heard screaming down in Charms. Professor Flitwick sent me up here to see if everything is alright," Cedric said, glancing around the classroom, catching Harriet's eye and grinning.

"Fine, laddie," Moody growled. "Just showing Potter and Weasley the great advantages of non-verbal spells."

"Oh," Cedric grinned, glancing at Harriet again. "Alright, I'll tell Professor Flitwick not to panic."

"You do that," Moody growled, and Cedric grinned at Harriet again before closing the door behind her. Feeling _very_ pleased with herself, Harriet had to suppress most of her smile, though she didn't entirely succeed.

Lavender and Parvati whirled around in their seats as Moody went to the chalkboard, opened their mouths, and—"Brown! Patil! Eyes _forward_!" Moody barked, and they whipped back around to face the front, blushing and clearly agitated that they didn't get to mentally pummel Harriet for information on why _gorgeous_ _Cedric Diggory_ had had so many smiles for her.

"Those who can fight without shouting incantations have an immense advantage over their opponents—an advantage that could determine the death of one wizard or the prevention of dozens more murders at the hands of a Dark Wizard," Moody growled, throwing the chalk down on his desk and glaring around at them all with his absurd eyes.

"I realise you're all very behind on curses, even verbal ones, so we'll just dive right into the deep end, see what you make of it," he growled. "Things are bound to be easier if you manage to refine your concentration and strengthen your brain-power to the point of successfully using magic non-verbally.

"Now—you will divide into pairs; one partner try to hex or jinx the other, the second, try and repel them using a Shield Charm." There was silence, no movement. Hermes raised his hand.

"Granger?"

"Sir, most of us don't know how to perform a Shield Charm," he said politely. Harriet and Rhona exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes; _Hermes_ would, of course, know how to perform a Shield Charm already.

"Disarm then, you all know how to do that?" Moody growled, and, more confident in the possibility of actually completing the task, they all paired up.

The typical amount of cheating ensued; people were merely whispering the jinx or hex out of frustration, and Moody was frequently barking, "_Finite Incantatem_!" to stop them wobbling around the classroom on Jelly-Legs or under the influence of _Tarantallegra_, and allow Norah, who kept getting hit with Hermes' Tickling Charm nonverbally after the first ten minutes, time to catch her breath.

"Come _on_, Potter," Moody growled. "Come _on_, you can do this. You threw off the Imperius Curse. You can _do this_." It was kind of hard to concentrate on not talking when she just wanted to tell Moody to _shut up and let me concentrate_!

Harriet was glowering so hard that she must have performed some kind of nonverbal magic, because Rhona's sleeve caught fire.

"Blimey! You hear of looks that can kill!" Rhona said, shaking her arm vigorously; Hermes sighed, pointed at her arm, and the flames doused. Harriet glanced at Mad-Eye, who stood reprimanding Parvati and Lavender for gossiping.

"Why's he always picking on me?" she whispered irritatedly.

"You're the Chosen One, aren't you," Rhona grinned. "Come on, let's have another go."

* * *

Ten minutes until the end of the lesson, Harriet managed to successfully Disarm Rhona nonverbally. Moody was so pleased he only held Rhona back at the end of the lesson to discuss her detention.

"Blinking—" she called Moody every name under the sun, "he's making me scrub the floor of the Gobstones Club room. _Without magic_. How come you got out of it?"

"I'm the Chosen One, like you said," Harriet smirked tartly, and Rhona tripped her on their way down the Charms corridor. Harriet let out a shriek and landed face-first on the carpeted floor. Harriet arched her eyebrow, still on the floor, picked her wand up and thought '_Rictusempra_!' with conviction.

"Oi—he-he—_you_—ha-ha-ha," Rhona doubled-up, wheezing with laughter, sinking to the floor nearing hysterics. Harriet leapt to her feet, grinning from ear to ear.

"_Nailed it!_" she cackled, as Rhona's face shone with tears of mirth.

"Er…Hi," said a familiar voice, and Harriet glanced up, grinning, at Cedric.

"Hiya!" she beamed, while Rhona's hysterical giggles filled the corridor. A group of Cedric's female admirers stood tittering behind him. "Good lesson?"

"Er…Yeah. What's wrong with Rhona?"

"Tickling Charm," Harriet grinned evilly. "I thought I'd practice my nonverbal spells."

"And to great effect," someone growled, and Professor Moody hobbled down the corridor. Harriet cringed guiltily. "Don't look like that, Potter! _Finite_. You keep practicing, you'll be well on your way to becoming a powerful dueller." Rhona, who had staggered to her feet, gaped at Harriet incredulously. Moody stumped off, leaving Rhona in shock, utterly indignant and gaping. The sixth-year girls giggled at her expression and Harriet grinned at her.

"I'm gonna kill you!"

"_AAAAAAAAARGH_!!!!" Harriet screamed, as Rhona pelted after her, flinging Bat-Bogey Hexes after her, dodging into a trusty shortcut hidden by a tapestry.

Rhona ended up with another detention from Professor McGonagall for hexing in the corridors. That, coupled with her detention from Moody, made Rhona a very vindictive dinner companion. Harriet sat with Hermes between them.

* * *

Sirius did not return to the common room until the third Friday of term, the night before the first Hogsmeade visit of the year. Such was the level of excitement in the common-room on Friday night that not even Hermes could get any work done, distracted by Colin Creevey's boisterous, boyish enthusiasm over Harriet's photographs.

She had managed, over the past week, to develop all of her photograph negatives in the potion Colin had instructed her to make out of _Magical Drafts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger, one of the potions Snape had never bothered to teach them in lesson because it was made more out of extracurricular needs. Harriet and Colin, and Dennis, who was not as avid a photographer as his brother, had spent the week after lessons and between homework assignments printing Harriet's favourite photographs. She had wanted them printed in colour; the process being a little more difficult, she had selected only a few photographs to print to begin with, but, as Colin had said gleefully, "_You're a natural_."

He had praised her artistic eye (Rhona had sniggered at this, saying that Harriet was "almost as blind as a bat!") and Harriet now had several folders of neat photographs she had done completely by herself. There was a photography laboratory cloistered in one of the upper corridors of the dungeons which had been set up by the Photography Club, which Colin had urged Harriet to sign up to, and which Harriet was now anticipating the first meeting of.

Harriet sat examining the latest few she had printed—the Weasleys and Cedric at the Burrow after the Quidditch World Cup. One of Cedric made her heart and stomach clench with an excruciating kind of pleasure. It was just him, the day his ten Outstanding O.W.L. results came, and he grinned bashfully up at her, lowering his lashes and running a hand nervously through his hair, a hint of colour creeping into his cheeks. The sun blistered down, picking out coppery and burnished gold highlights in his dark hair, which was teased by a gentle breeze; his eyes burned beautifully, the curl of his eyelashes illuminated by their luxurious shadows.

"You know, I think I should buy a photograph album from _Flourish_ _and_ _Blotts_ tomorrow," Harriet said thoughtfully, going through the photographs (she had now printed copies of all of the negatives, and had an enormous pile four inches thick stacked on her stomach).

"I wish I could go," sighed Norah, who looked very glum whilst everyone in third year and above swapped excited plans for the next day.

"Has McGonagall still not lifted your ban?" Rhona asked, glancing over at Norah, who was consoling herself with cuttings of her _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_, which were already beginning to flourish, an inch tall in their tiny terracotta pots. Norah shook her head, looking dejected.

"And Gran wouldn't take me during the holidays," she said sadly. "She said I'd damaged the family honour, and deserved the punishment I got." Harriet glanced at Sirius, whose muzzle was pointed intently towards Norah, his ears perked.

"But Sirius Black's _gone_," Rhona said, catching Harriet's eye and winking as she stroked Padfoot behind his ears, making his tail wag as he barked happily. "He hasn't tried to do anyone in."

"Yes, but he almost _stabbed you_," Norah whispered, looking terrified at the memory. She returned to her _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_, making notes on a little graph she'd made to chart the cuttings' progress. Eventually, overcome by misery, Norah made her way slowly upstairs, and Harriet thought she saw Norah crooning softly to the plants in her hands as she passed.

"Shame she can't come to Hogsmeade with us," Harriet said softly, gazing after Norah's retreating form. She had gotten used to Norah hanging around with them. Content to be alone, Norah was always ecstatic to be invited into a group, and while their friendship wasn't quite level with the friendship between Harriet, Rhona and Hermes, they had all become accustomed to her cheerful smiles and kind remarks whenever they were feeling down.

"We'll buy her some fudge from Honeydukes," Rhona said unconcernedly, biting her tongue thoughtfully as she scribbled on a spare bit of parchment. "What rhymes with 'misogynists'?"

"You still working on the anthem?" Harriet grinned, chuckling amusedly. Rhona smirked as Hermes' focus on his Transfiguration essay redoubled.

"I'm thinking about having a little Celestina recorded for it," Rhona said confidentially. "And I thought I could go to the Scorned Witches Association. They'd love to—"

"Alright, I've had it! I _know_ you're this just doing this to piss me off!" Hermes shouted, rounding on Rhona, whose eyebrows flew up as she tried not to smirk too broadly.

"Does the Archbishop of Canterbury know you talk like that?" Harriet asked, dropping a photograph of her and Rhona (who resembled Pippi Longstocking with her hair in plaits, wearing a patched yellow dress and odd socks at the Burrow) sitting either side of Cedric with their little picnic spread, raising Butterbeer bottles and grinning, onto the pile.

"I don't go to church, Harriet," Hermes said dryly.

"Well, you're just riddled in sin, aren't you?!" Harriet gasped in mock horror.

"How do we _ever_ get any work done?" Rhona asked inquisitively, looking from them thoughtfully.

"You _didn't_, before I came along, if I remember correctly," Hermes said tartly.

"Oh, that's right—since women couldn't possibly do anything without a man telling them to do it fir—"

"_Rhona_!"

* * *

**A.N.**: He-he. I _loved_ writing that bit about nonverbal spells! I can just imagine their high-pitched screams ringing down the stone corridors and leaping about, absolutely petrified out of their wits! PLEASE REVIEW!!!

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	29. Letters from a Young Death Eater

**A.N.**: This is a short but crucial one! I'll update two _but please review on both_. I need to know how you like/dislike the chapters! To Aya-_Mikage2002_, _peacekeeperchuck_ and the ever-faithful _SlytherclawXHuffledor_ for your reviews of chapter 28.

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**Letters ****from a Young Death Eater**

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Sirius re-emerged as a man later on when everyone else had gone to bed, with Hermes threatening to go up too after having enough of Rhona making stabs at him about _Witches'_ _Suffragettes_ _Society_, and sprawled luxuriously in the huge armchair by the fire, which seemed to fit him particularly well.

"So, how's the _W.S.S._ coming along?" he grinned at Rhona.

"Pretty good, actually. So far I've driven Hermes up the wall _three times_ in an hour," Rhona smirked.

"A personal best," Harriet added, and Rhona nodded.

"So…First Hogsmeade visit tomorrow," Sirius smiled. "What are you three going to get up to?"

"Well," Rhona and Harriet both sighed, "we _thought_ about going to Madam Puddifoot's," Rhona continued, "but, seeing as it's too _feminine_ for Hermes, we've decided we might go and have lunch at the Three Broomsticks."

"And then drag Hermes around the shops," Harriet cackled vindictively. Hermes pointedly ignored them both.

"I see…would you be having this lunch in a private parlour?" Sirius asked casually.

"Perhaps," Rhona shrugged. Sirius rolled his eyes. "Why?"

"Has this got anything to do with…what we talked about the other day?" Harriet asked quietly. Sirius eyed her thoughtfully.

"_Perhaps_," he said, mocking Rhona. "There is something I'd like you to obtain from _Bode and Barbars'_."

"What's that?"

"It's a shop in Hogsmeade," Sirius said, giving them a shifty, guilty sort of look. "It's… Have you ever heard of _Borgin_ _and_ _Bourke's_?"

"Heard of it? Harriet's _been_ there!" Rhona exclaimed, and Sirius then gave Harriet a very searching half-glare.

"We'll get back to that in a minute, but…_Bode_ _and_ _Barbars'_ isn't _quite_ as disreputable as _Borgin and Bourke's_, but it comes close to it; it's the Hogsmeade equivalent," Sirius said quietly, pulling several things out of the pocket of his robes. A letter, another sheaf of parchment, and a small, burnished silver key.

"What's that?" Harriet asked interestedly.

"This is the key to a safety-deposit box in the back room of _Bode_ _and_ _Barbars'_," Sirius said quietly, handing Harriet the key. "_This_ is the registration number of the box, and the password. You must _think_ the password, only think it, and tap it with your wand _before_ unlocking the box. That's very important."

"Er…what exactly is _in_ this safety-deposit box?" Hermes asked warily. Sirius bit his lip, glancing around at them all.

"I'm not entirely certain," he said quietly.

"Then how do you—?"

"It belongs to my brother," Sirius said quietly. "Harriet, read this, will you?" He handed Harriet the letter, which she realised when she took it was only a few sparse sentences long.

* * *

_Dear Sirius,_

_I know I'm being cryptic writing like this,_

_but the Dark Lord's spies are everywhere._

_I can't risk writing to you as I would wish._

_Tell Prongs that if I'm successful,_

_his daughter's job will be made a little easier._

_If I fail, go to Bode and Barbars' in Hogsmeade._

_Your goddaughter should find what's in my box extremely useful._

_She'll know what to do with them._

_Regulus_

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"Sirius, what does it mean?" Harriet asked quietly. "Who's Regulus?"

"My younger-brother," Sirius sighed heavily. "I don't know what it means."

"How does he know about Prongs?" Harriet asked.

"Most likely he heard me talking to James when we were at Hogwarts," Sirius sighed heavily. "He was four years below me, you see, in Slytherin. We never saw much of each other after I ran away from home. I received this letter maybe six months before your parents… Well, we all know the end of that story."

"He says my '_job will be made a little easier_,'" Harriet read. "Do you think he _knows_—about the prophecy?"

"It's very possible," Sirius said quietly, rubbing his face tiredly. "Regulus joined the Death Eaters very young—by that time, our cousin Bellatrix was already one of Voldemort's closest supporters. I cannot say most-trusted, for I doubt Voldemort ever trusted anyone. But it is very possible Regulus was invited right into the inner circle. He might've known."

"Might've known enough to be a threat," Rhona remarked, taking the letter and reading it.

"How do we know it wasn't a fake?" Hermes asked quietly.

"It was delivered into my hands," Sirius said quietly, "by Severus Snape."

"_Snape_?" all three blurted.

"Yes. You are to tell no-one about this—Severus Snape turned spy for the Order of the Phoenix almost a year before Lord Voldemort's downfall," Sirius said quietly, glancing around at all of them. "He was a double-agent."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean—He was a Death Eater," Sirius said, even more quietly. "He turned spy for Dumbledore, I never knew why. But I received this letter from Regulus through him…I never got a response when I wrote back."

"Does Dumbledore know about this?" Harriet asked, turning over the tiny silver key in her hand.

"No," Sirius sighed heavily. "When I never heard back from Regulus, well… I've never found out what happened to him. He disappeared." Sirius' face marred with ill-disguised concern and deep guilt.

"So, we go to _Bode and Barbars'_," Rhona said definitively. "Only way to know what he was going on about."

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**A.N.**: Please review!


	30. Hogsmeade

**A.N.**: As per request of _SlytherclawXHuffledor_, look out for Lavender and Parvati's interrogation of Harriet! Oh, and I apologise to any male readers, this chapter is particularly girly as they go to _Madame Primpernelle's Salon_ and I kind of got into the swing of it! But the perfume bit is important!

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**Hogsmeade**

A little over halfway through September, and the weather was still absolutely scorching. Perhaps to make up for the rainstorms the first week of term, and the Dementors of last year, the mountains were scorched with a gorgeously-hot sun set into a beautiful forget-me-not sky. Harriet, Rhona and Hermes decided to set out for Hogsmeade early after breakfast.

"What do you reckon it is?" Rhona asked, watching Padfoot gambolling around on the lawn with Fang and Colin Creevey, for the first time without his brother in sight, as they walked down the hill from the Entrance Hall.

"What? In Regulus's box?" Harriet asked, glancing away from her godfather. The little silver key rested in her pocket.

"I still think we should go to Dumbledore about this," Hermes said sternly.

"Oh, he'll probably know anyway," Harriet said, a little bitterly. "He's been watching me 'more closely than I can imagine' after all!"

"Sirius wouldn't suggest Harriet do anything dangerous, Hermes," Rhona said with conviction.

"Sirius doesn't exactly have a pristine record in that department, does he," Hermes said coolly. "And I'm not talking about your parents, Harriet, so there's no use looking at me like that. I'm talking about Professor Snape. You know what Sirius did to him."

"Yeah, and I can't blame him, personally," Harriet said, shrugging: Rhona laughed.

"He wouldn't do that to his best-friend's daughter, though," Rhona said.

"But Regulus might. I don't care if Sirius thinks that letter was only from his brother—or only seen _by_ Sirius—I've read about how it was back then—"

"And you couldn't trust your best-friend," Harriet snapped. He'd been protesting all morning, ever since he'd greeted them at the bottom of their staircase. "Hermes—please, just give it a rest, alright? We'll go to this shop and get what we need. Anyway, Sirius will be there—"

"Perhaps not in the shop. He mightn't be allowed," Hermes said.

"_Fine_! Then we'll have _you_ there," Rhona sighed exasperatedly. "You're the best student in the school, Hermes, I'm sure you can protect two dainty little darlings."

"You're trying to placate me."

"And boost your ego at the same time," Rhona nodded. "Is it working?" Hermes didn't respond, but he was smiling slightly. And he didn't have another chance to bring up the subject of Regulus and the box because, just then, they heard their names called across the lawn—"Harriet! Rhona! Hermes!"

"Hey, isn't that—?"

"Norah!"

"What's she doing down here?" Rhona frowned.

"I'm betting she's not visiting the Skrewts," Harriet said darkly, glancing at Hagrid's cabin. Norah came running down the hill, and stopped before them, her face gleaming, her smile radiant.

"What're you doing down here, Norah?" Harriet asked, smiling: Norah's smiles tended to be infectious. Like them, Norah wore casual Muggle clothing and had a bag slung over her head.

"Professor Dumbledore asked me to go to his office this morning! I thought I was in trouble, because Professor Moody hadn't checked the book out of the library that he gave me," Norah beamed. "But he just said I'd better get my purse if I wanted to spend any money in Honeydukes, and I asked him what he meant and he said he's re-invoked my permission to go into Hogsmeade."

"That's great!" they all grinned, and Sirius, sauntering over, barked, and Harriet was sure he winked. A group of sixth-year Hufflepuffs—including Cedric—was making its way towards them.

"Um…" here, Norah looked a little uncomfortable, and she blushed. "Would you mind if I spent the day with you? I don't know who else would let me…it's not the same on your own."

"Course you can hang out with us!" Rhona laughed, as if this should have been obvious.

"You know you're always welcome," Hermes smiled warmly, and Norah looked greatly relieved.

"We _like_ hanging out with you," Harriet reminded her. Norah practically glowed, and she mumbled a bashful, "Thanks." They set off, chatting animatedly, but Harriet wondered how she could slip away without Norah noticing, or, more importantly, asking questions. Norah, being Norah, managed to trip, not over her own feet as was usual, but the top of her messenger-bag. How she had managed it, Harriet didn't know, but next moment both she and Norah (they had been skipping arm-in-arm, singing the Hogwarts school song) were both somersaulting painfully down the craggy, mossy hill.

It all happened in a painful instant, and then Harriet lay in a thoroughly winded heap on the path. She was vaguely aware of laughter and someone hushing them worriedly—"Shh! That isn't funny!" and the sound of footsteps hurrying closer as Norah blurted a yell and Harriet shouted in pain as Norah landed heavily on top of her.

"Harriet! Norah!" She heard their names called by a stricken Hermes, and Rhona, who just managed to wheeze their names out through her laughter.

"Harriet, are you alright?" Norah moaned. "I'm so sorry." She clambered off Harriet and, both staggering, helped Harriet to her feet, her knees weak because of dizziness.

"Don't worry about it, Norah," Harriet said, catching sight of Cedric hurrying forward, looking worried and a little bit amused. "It was just a detour—a shortcut."

"A shortcut to what?" Norah mumbled, flushing with a combination of things, embarrassment prevalent, as a group of Slytherin fourth-years including Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson sauntered past, howling with laughter.

"Harriet! Girls, are you alright?" Cedric had drawn level with them, looking anxious and lovely. "I saw you take the tumble. Nothing's broken, is it?"

"Oh, no…I'm just seeing two of you," Harriet giggled softly, "which isn't altogether a bad thing." Cedric laughed, looking embarrassed but pleased.

"Are you sure you're alright—Norah, was it?" Cedric asked. No…Norah had frozen, her face flushed.

"Oh yeah! Cedric, this is my good friend Norah, Norah Longbottom," Harriet said happily, stepping on Norah's foot to spark some reaction out of her. "Norah, this is Cedric Diggory." Norah glanced up, blushing, and managed a sort, "Hello."

"Come on, Ced!" one of his friends called, and the girls cooed, "_Cedric_!"

"Well, I'd better go," Cedric smiled. "Enjoy the day." He jogged to catch up with his friends, and Harriet couldn't help watching as he walked away.

"He has a _really_ nice bum," she said softly, sighing. Norah made a noise of agreement, and they both watched him walk farther away.

Rhona and Hermes caught up with them and they made their way down the path—only to be waylaid by Lavender and Parvati, who stepped in either side of Harriet and clamped their arms around Harriet's.

"Are you and Cedric Diggory, _you_ _know_—?" Lavender grinned.

"What?"

"Are you two going out?" Parvati demanded eagerly.

"No!"

"He hasn't said anything about it?" Lavender breathed.

"No!"

"Have _you_ said anything to him about it?" Parvati asked breathlessly.

"No!"

"But you like him, don't you?!"

"I—yeah, I s'pose, but—"

"Would you go out with him?" Lavender demanded excitedly.

"I don't know, I—"

"Of _course_ she would!" Parvati said impatiently. "Are you sure he hasn't, you know, made any moves?"

"_Yes_!" Harriet squeaked; her cheeks burned and she felt very warm.

"He's very cute—and he's always smiling at you!" Lavender accused.

"Well, he's a happy person!" Harriet blushed, embarrassed and annoyed.

"Oh! Come on, he's lovely—he's _really lovely_ to you!" Parvati scoffed.

"I—I'm going to Hogsmeade now—_OI! WAIT FOR ME_!!!" Harriet shouted, and made a mad dash for Hermes, Rhona and Norah, luckily _not_ tripping over on her way down the sloping path. They all pointedly did _not_ make any comments about Cedric—but though she saw Rhona and Norah exchanging expectant grins, she focused instead on looking at the scenery. Several times, Cedric's dark hair, glinting like burning copper in the strong sunlight, caught her eye, and Lavender and Parvati's demands had set her imagination rolling…

* * *

It was very easy to give Norah the slip; she and Rhona went straight for Honeydukes, and Harriet and Hermes followed Sirius' lead to _Bode and Barbars'_ in one of the few back-alleys of the village near the Hog's Head inn. The shop was small, dismal-looking but clean, with one diamond-paned bay-window that featured the sign; _Bode and Barbars'_, with the illustration of three shrunken heads, one stacked on top of the other two.

"Lovely décor," Harriet remarked, wrinkling her nose.

"We'll get what we need and leave," Hermes said quietly.

Unlike _Borgin and Bourke's_, _Bode and Barbars'_ seemed to keep everything locked in glistening black lacquered cabinets; the right-hand wall was given over to large bookcases full of odd books. One gleaming counter across the back wall blocked access to two doors, and a spiral staircase rose up through the gleaming ceiling. It was so _clean_. Everything incriminating was locked away; Harriet got the impression one had to know what one was looking for before entering this shop. A bell must have run in a back room, for an elderly man, melancholy-looking with long black hair came out of one of the back doors, holding a steaming mug. He gave her and Hermes an appraising sweep of cutting blue eyes and set his mug down.

"Can I help you?" he asked politely; his voice was guttural. Harriet strode forward.

"Yes, please, I'd like to empty the safety-deposit box number 1075397," she said confidently. The man raised one eyebrow, lowering the other.

"I happen to know that that safety-deposit box is held by a man, and it has not been opened for thirteen years," he said quietly, glancing over Harriet's shoulder at Hermes, because Sirius had growled softly.

"He gave instruction for me to empty it," Harriet said tartly. "I have the key and password. Please—" Heaving a great, aggravated sigh, and eyeing Sirius, he disappeared through the second door. It took him five minutes to return, during which time Hermes had gotten very agitated and Harriet had snapped at him. A nondescript black box, seamless and with no visible keyhole, came floating in front of the man and he directed it with his wand onto the counter. Harriet noticed that the coffee in his mug was rippling away from the box as if it was a stone plunged heavily into a lake.

"Do not touch the box with your hands until it is unlocked completely," the man directed. "Tap the box only once with your wand, think your password, and fit the key." Harriet nodded and tugged the little scrap of parchment from her pocket. She hadn't even looked at the password last night.

'_To you, Harriet, my luck_'. It was like a hand reaching out to her from another lifetime—her parents' lifetime—had left this note for her. She tapped the box, and in the centre of the top, a small silver unadorned keyhole appeared. She heard Hermes shifting around behind her in agitation as she put the key in the lock and turned it. With a sharp click, the top raised an inch and grew, becoming a lid. The man turned on his heel and disappeared into his back office. Harriet frowned, lifting the lid.

Sitting neatly atop each other by size were several books; they looked so old that Harriet wouldn't have wondered if they turned to dust as soon as she touched them. There were four books, the last one very thin.

"Wait!" Hermes said curtly, as she reached to take the books. Hermes took out his wand, marched over, tapped each of the books and said, "_Specialus_ _Revelio_." Nothing happened.

"You finished?" Harriet asked tartly.

"Alright, take them!" Hermes huffed. "But woe betide you if anything should happen—"

"You'll be the first one to say '_I told you so_,' I know," Harriet rolled her eyes, and grabbed the books. Nothing happened. She slipped them into her bag and locked the box. The man reappeared and flicked his wand, and Harriet thanked him and said goodbye as he walked through the other door.

* * *

"We should probably go and meet Norah and Rhona," Harriet said, as they made their way back to the main square, which was littered with clusters of students in Muggle-wear. As it had taken only five minutes to acquire the books, they found Norah and Rhona still immersed in the sample selection of new fudges in Honeydukes amidst overexcited third-years. Harriet bought a stash of Drooble's gum, a box of sugar-quills, a large sampler box of all the different varieties of filled chocoballs, several bars of chocolate to send to Remus, a bag of peanut-brittle for Sirius and a bag of strawberry liquorice wands. They left with Hermes, who had demanded they all buy Tooth-Flossing String-Mints because of the amount of sugar they would be consuming.

Harriet didn't get a chance to look at the books until they had returned to Hogwarts, after dinner. Until then, she was run around Hogsmeade.

They went to the stationers and Harriet bought a beautiful red leather photograph album charmed to prevent acid-discolouration of the photographs. She bought several sticks of her sealing wax, which she was running out of, and a new stylus pen that wrote beautifully. Whilst Hermes went to _Flourish and Blotts_ to blow the money his parents had sent him to exchange in the Post Office for galleons, and to buy the girls their copies of _Confronting the Faceless_, which Moody had recommended for advance reading for their first N.E.W.T. year and to help with their nonverbal spells, the girls went to _Madam_ _Puddifoot's_, where lovers and ladies went, and sat down to a lovely clotted-cream tea. After tea, they went to the yarn shop and Harriet bought herself a set of needles and some very pretty yarns and some easy patterns for scarves and mittens while Rhona sought out a complicated pattern for a long cardigan, and then Rhona wanted to go to _Madam Primpernelle's_.

So they walked over to the pretty, thatched salon filled with older girls and pretty saleswitches in lovely mauve or silver satin robes. Norah waited by the door, afraid to touch anything lest she upset a display. Rhona knew exactly what she wanted; as the only girl in her family, Mrs Weasley doted on Rhona and had raised her to be as feminine as possible, surrounded as she was by five brothers. One of the smiling saleswitches remembered Harriet from the Quidditch World Cup (at the time, she had been suggesting potions to cure Harriet of her perpetually-tousled hair) and when she had finished kitting out a group of Slytherin fifth-years, she turned her attention to Harriet, and Norah, "you wallflower, come on in!" and gave them both light makeovers.

Norah looked very pretty indeed when Minet—the saleswitch—had finished with her; with a little foundation and a brightening powder to gently conceal Norah's few pimples, she darkened Norah's eyes with a purple eyeshadow and mascara. She used a tinted, scented lip-scrub that Norah wanted to buy a pot of.

"Now, your turn," Minet said, wiggling her finger at Harriet. Feeling very hot under her collar, Harriet crept onto the tall stool and tried not to look anywhere in particular. "Alright, first thing—show your face!" Minet laughed softly, taking a very thin pearl-pink silk-wrapped headband with a lovely raw-silk flower on the side from a display of hair products and accessories and brushing Harriet's hair, slipping the headband on to push her hair behind her ears. It felt odd, being able to see to the sides, with the weight of the flower on the right-side of her head; "You have _lovely_ even skin—very clear," Minet remarked, smiling, using a tiny bit of lightweight liquid foundation that turned to weightless powder on application that matched Harriet's almost-albino pale skin, and a powder that gleamed like crushed pearls. She brought Harriet's sharp cheekbones out with a warm pinkish powder and used a tiny bit of shimmering iridescent pale-gold eyeshadow to really make Harriet's stunning green eyes _pop_, and curled her lashes with mascara. She had fun on Harriet's lips, experimenting with different colours of lipsticks and glosses because, as Minet said, Harriet's lips were "sumptuous."

She used a very warm, pale pinky-mauve lipstick that was Harriet's favourite, and she added the little wand of lipgloss in the matching shade to her little stash of products, and Minet tried the colour on top of a layer of the lip scrub that tasted of marzipan and made Harriet's lips smooth and very kissable.

Harriet imagined it was her mother teaching her how to put her makeup on: when she had been out with Aunt Petunia, the woman hadn't shown Harriet how to do things, but Minet did it in front of a small handheld mirror that cooed compliments at her, so Harriet could mimic what Minet did later on. But it was only imagination—every time Minet said something, the daydream jolted and Harriet had to start all over again. By the time Harriet was almost finished, a gaggle of Cedric Diggory's pretty Hufflepuff friends came in, and Harriet started to attract a lot of attention.

A different person stared back at her in the hand-mirror that kept cooing compliments at her. It was an older girl, a more mature, a much _prettier_ girl. The girl with the scar was gone. it was still there, though barely noticeable. It wasn't _Harriet_.

Feeling very hot in the spotlight as all of the girls (ones who _didn't_ look down on her) told her how beautiful she was, Harriet thanked Minet and escaped from the makeover counter, which quickly became very crowded. A little mauve basket filled with recommended products, Harriet meandered around the light, airy salon. A few girls were having their nails done as a treat; another was having her hair restyled. One girl—Eloise Midgeon—was having an intense Anti-Acne Treatment in a back corner behind a mauve screen, and Harriet heard her whimpers of pain, as one of _Madam Primpernelle's_ Beautifiers said soothingly, "It's only the diluted Bubotuber pus, dear, the sting will wear off soon, and your skin will be as clear and smooth as a baby's bottom!" But Eloise started to cry in earnest and another witch had to go and help. Harriet picked up a jar of something that looked like coarse brown sugar mixed into golden syrup—a _Sugar Face Polish_—and smelt the sample jar.

She thought it might be fun, seeing Rhona and Norah laughing together as they experimented with eyeshadows, and with the amount of sweets they all bought and the great records Hermes had given her and Rhona access to because music irritated him while he revised, to have a sort of girlie-night. She remembered sleepovers at the Dursleys' house that Harriet was never privy to. The girls in the Gryffindor fourth-year dormitory had been getting along unusually well.

She picked out sample pots of face masks that smelt like almonds, another of strawberries, a third of honey, a fourth of flowers and the last the _Sugar_ _Face_ _Polish_, put them in her basket and found Norah by the lip-glosses, shooting the perfume display a covetous glance. Telling Norah of her plan, Harriet took her over to the perfumes and was attacked by an enchanted perfume atomiser. Swatting it away, Harriet turned to admire the display: She would have bought each and every perfume solely for the pretty bottle. She uncapped the display bottles—too sickly-sweet, too musky, too heavy—until she found a clear art-glass bottle shaped like a delicate little miniature vase, with several closed flower-buds of glass or crystal, the stems green, each bud either delicate cream or rich, beautiful luxurious crimson: as soon as Harriet picked up the bottle, the glass flowers slowly started to open; delicate cream freesias and beautiful lilies with a thin stripe of burgundy on each petal, glorious miniature red roses, little blood-throated orchids, orange-blossoms and delicate Jasmine sambac. Harriet knew their names from Aunt Petunia's books on flower-gardens (she had enjoyed them, whilst Harriet broke her back and bruised her knees doing the gardening!) but that wasn't where she knew the fragrance. As soon as all of the flowers had blossomed, they exuded a mist of perfume that ghosted against her skin just below her ears, at the base of her throat and at her wrists. The scent was so familiar it made her stomach ache with longing, but she couldn't for the life of her remember where she'd smelt it before.

"Notes include all those flowers," said a pretty, toothy saleswitch, "plus bergamot, patchouli, amber and musk. _Poesie_, it's one of our greatly underestimated classics. Most witches find the bottle plain, you see—they don't realise the beauty of it lies in the details."

"H-how much is it?" Harriet asked, smelling her wrist. It was absolutely gorgeous. She had never thought of herself as a perfume-girl, but she could take a bath in this stuff. The saleswitch smiled and unlocked the cabinet below the display, retrieving the box for a bottle of _Poesie_ perfume; the box itself was very pretty, a pale shimmering matte gold with a luxurious crimson satin ribbon tied in a lovely bow. The perfume, coupled with the hoard of goodies and other pretty things, came to eight galleons and seven sickles—with the use of a voucher, the price was knocked down to five galleons, ten sickles, which still qualified her for a free goodie-bag of promotional items in the new autumn/winter collection inside a really pretty reticule-bag, which was pale pearly-gold, shaped like an upside-down flower with petals decorated with pale-gold stitching and beaded embroidery and tiny rosettes and a beaded trim, and which was charmed to prevent spills and prevent the shattering of compressed powders.

* * *

"I'll meet you outside," Harriet said to Norah, who was five girls behind her in the queue, and called the sentiment to Rhona, who was at the back, her arms loaded, her vouchers clutched in her hand, of the queue that had grown considerably because a group of Ravenclaw seventh-years had joined the throng inside. Harriet managed to fight her way outside and breathed a sigh of relief; she hadn't realised how loud and _smelly_ the shop had been. Yet more girls were making their way over from various points all around the square, and Harriet heard a soft bark and smiled as Padfoot wagged his tail happily, his head raised off the ground where he lay at Cedric Diggory's feet. He was giving Padfoot a vigorous pat and stroked his ears. Cedric sat on a bench ten feet from _Madam Primpernelle's_, bathed in sunlight, looking utterly relaxed. Several bags stood on the ground around him and a number of packages on the bench beside him. He glanced up and smiled, and waved her over.

Harriet almost didn't catch the double-take—it was that quick. Cedric wasn't quite as stealthy as concealing his shocked disbelief—at least, that's what Harriet thought she saw in his open-mouthed stare. When she'd perched on the bench beside him, his voice was warm, caressing. "Somebody hit you with a pretty stick." Harriet felt her cheeks burn and she glanced away, embarrassed and extremely pleased.

Nobody had ever called her pretty before today. Nobody had told her she was beautiful or "prettier than all those other girls," or made it known they thought she was the prettiest girl in the world because she was _their_ little girl. Mrs Weasley was always coddling Rhona.

"Oh…Minet did it," she said, flicking her eyes over the shop. She suddenly felt the very great need to have her hair loose around her face, so the coveted comfort-blanket of her sheet of tousled black hair could conceal how flustered she was. Instead, she chose to content herself with tucking her hair further behind her ear and glanced at Cedric. "So…why aren't you at Zonko's?"

"Oh, my friends are all still in there," Cedric grinned lazily. "It's kind of difficult to think in there, though…Besides, after all that stuff Fred and George pulled on me during the summer, I've moved on from Zonko's."

"You're a fan of _Weasleys'_ _Wizard_ _Wheezes_, then," Harriet grinned.

"Well, I'm an investor," Cedric grinned mischievously.

"Cedric _Diggory_, Hogwarts _prefect_, a financial investor of a _joke shop_?" Harriet gasped in mock horror. "Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

"It's a good investment," Cedric shrugged. "The twins definitely know what they're doing with all of their products."

"Did you get a payout already?" Harriet asked, glancing around at the packages and bags.

"Oh, no, I said I'd hold onto these for the girls," Cedric said, glancing around too.

"They'll be a little while," Harriet said, watching another saleswitch stand just outside the door, asking the girls who approached the shop to please form a queue if they wished to go inside, as it was so busy already.

"Hiya! Harriet!" Harriet glanced over and waved at Colin Creevey as he came bounding over from _Dervish and Banges_, which she had yet to enter today, grinning. "Guess what, Harriet, guess what? _Dervish and Banges_ sells new photographic paper that's already been treated with potions for colour photographs! All that complicated stuff I showed you, you can just forget that now! Isn't that cool?"

"How much is it?" Harriet asked, smiling and interested. She _had_ found the process of making colour photographs a little complex, especially as Potions had never been her absolute best subject.

"I just bought some—it's five sickles for twenty twelve-by-ten sheets, which is really good, isn't it, _and_ there are charms on it that only make the potions light-sensitive when you unlock them with another charm, so you can cut them up easily!" Colin grinned, almost doing an interpretation of the Tasmanian devil in his eagerness. "I love Hogsmeade. It's really wonderful, isn't it? Oh—_Smile_!" He raised his camera and Harriet shot a grin in time for the flash. "I'll see you later, Harriet—I'm going to send some Milk Bottles from Honeydukes to my dad—he'll _love_ them! And then I'm going to the Shrieking Shack!" He took a springing leap and began bounding away, before he caught himself. "Oh—you look very nice today, Harriet."

"Thank you, Colin," Harriet mumbled, smiling shyly. He bounded off, grinning.

"You have an admirer," Cedric said softly, smiling. Harriet flushed and glanced after Colin.

"He's always been like that," Harriet blushed.

"Wasn't he petrified on his way to visiting you in the hospital wing two years ago?" Cedric asked interestedly, watching Colin disappear into the Post Office.

"After Lockhart removed all the bones from my arm, yes," Harriet said, flushing in embarrassment.

"Am I embarrassing you?" Cedric asked quietly.

"_Yes_!"

He chuckled softly, his light grey eyes dancing. "So why was he telling you about photographic paper?"

"Oh—I joined the Hogwarts Photography Club," Harriet smiled, twisting the clasp on her bag, and pulled out the selection of photographs she had brought to get frames for and to fit albums to. There were two envelopes, one filled with photographs from the Quidditch World Cup, the other random photographs of life at the Burrow with Bill, Charlie, the twins, Rhona, Hermes and Cedric.

Harriet liked Cedric's smile as he looked through the photographs; she remembered his comments and smiled when he laughed. He picked out the ones he particularly liked above the others, and his favourite was of him and Harriet—Rhona had taken it, the day Cedric's fantastic exam results had arrived. Sitting in the brilliant sunlight of the prettily-overgrown garden of the Burrow, eating fairy-cakes and drinking icy Butterbeer, they were both grinning at the camera and at each other, and waved merrily.

When Rhona and Norah had fought their way out of the shop, a trickle of Hufflepuffs followed them, and regretfully Harriet left Cedric in the care of two blondes and a very pretty brunette.

"You weren't covered in Stinksap or falling down a hill this time," Norah remarked comfortingly, as they made their way to _Dervish and Banges_. Harriet bought several lovely photograph frames and the photographic paper Colin had mentioned (Harriet suggested to the shopkeeper he give Colin a commission, as he was likely to tell anyone and everyone he could about it) and Norah bought a new pewter cauldron (she had been using a rusty old one from the store-cupboard the last few lessons).

Hermes caught up with them in _Gladrags_ when they were looking through gloves and things for wintertime, and together they all went to the Three Broomsticks for a Butterbeer before making their way back up to the castle.

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**A.N.**: Please review.

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	31. Regulus' Gift

**A.N****.**: Aya-_Mikage2002_, thank you for your review—I hope you can wait another twenty-odd chapters for the first task! I've got to have Harriet destroy a Horcrux beforehand!

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**Regulus' Gift**

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Saturday-night was devoted to a sleepover-style party in the girls' dormitories; Harriet took a selection of old records from Hermes' collection and Rhona coerced George Weasley to steal some food for her from the kitchens after dinner. Harriet put out little bowls of sweets and magazines, and she, Rhona, Norah, Parvati and Lavender had an absolutely wonderful time together, testing out the face-masks and painting each other's nails and trying out new hairstyles, giggling madly on a sugar-high and learning the words to old 1960's-and-70s Muggle tunes like '_Sugar, Sugar_' by the Archies and '_Knock Three Times_' by Tony Orlando and Dawn and '_I've Had the Time (Of My Life)_' by Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes, and '_Ain't No Mountain High Enough_' by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell and '_Up Around the Bend_' by Credence Clearwater Revival and gossiping about the people in their year and above. Padfoot chose to go and sleep in the boys' dormitory with Hermes.

Sunday morning, however, meant homework and revising and very little chatter. Harriet didn't move from her bed until noon, too focused on getting her Transfiguration and History of Magic essays out of the way before lunch. When she finally finished reading the passage in _Confronting the Faceless_ about nonverbal spells, she sighed, chucked her stuff off her bed, and grabbed her bag. She tugged out Regulus's books and settled back into her pillows after pummelling some shape back into them. She examined the titles of the three larger books; the largest was bound in faded black leather, and the silvery title on the spine was peeling; _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. The second was of navy-blue leather with bronze studs: _Gást Cléofan_, which was written in a language Harriet had absolutely no clue about, but didn't fancy calling in Barty Crouch to translate for her. The third was named simply _Inferi_. The fourth volume, the small, thin book only a quarter-inch thick, was _An Intense Study on the Peculiarities of Basilisk Venom_.

_Well, I could tell me all I want to know about Basilisk venom_, Harriet thought, glancing at her right arm, which had once been pierced through with a Basilisk fang, which had led almost to her death. Fawkes, Professor Dumbledore's magnificent scarlet-and-gold phoenix, had saved her by crying over her wound—his tears had cured her of the quick-spreading venom. And an '_Intense_' study of Basilisk venom! She opened this book first and had finished reading it cover-to-cover in twenty minutes! And it only told her what she knew already. That it could kill almost instantly, and the only known cure was phoenix tears, which were extremely rare and therefore the author had died during experimenting, and his work had been published by his widow.

_Gást Cléofan _she disregarded completely, as she had no idea what language it was even written in, but she started on _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

Rhona, who ran like clockwork on mealtimes, demanded they go downstairs for lunch, and Harriet thoughtfully _didn't_ take the book downstairs with her but put it in her trunk. They met Hermes, who looked fresh-faced and happy; "Still doing homework? I finished mine last night."

"Of course you did," Rhona said venomously, stumbling downstairs with Hermes for support; she had crashed on sugar at ten a.m. this morning after overdosing on Levitating Sherbet Balls last night. She was still floating five inches off the ground, which made her a lot taller than everyone, and made it difficult for her to sit down at the Gryffindor table.

"I started reading the books," Harriet said quietly to Hermes, who sat beside her. He glanced at her sharply and frowned.

"And?"

"Well, one of them's about Basilisk venom," Harriet said, and she told Hermes a little about what she had begun reading from _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. "…it's all about something called 'Horcruxes'."

"I've never heard of them," Hermes frowned.

"What I've read so far is _horrible_. I haven't even got past the introduction yet! It's all about splitting the soul," Harriet bit her lip, frowning as Hermes sawed through a loaf of crusty farm-bread for their minestrone soup.

"What were the other two books about?" Hermes asked.

"One was written in a really strange language, I've never even seen it before," Harriet said, taking a mouthful of minestrone and humming contentedly; it felt good to eat something wholesome after the excess sugar and Butterbeer they had consumed all day yesterday.

"And the other?"

"Inferi," Harriet frowned.

"Oh, well, yes," Hermes nodded. "You-Know-Who used them during the war."

"Er…how d'you…never mind," Harriet shook her head, deciding it was better to let Hermes absorb information in any way he knew how and leave them to be utterly befuddled that he could retain so much knowledge.

"There's an entire chapter on them in _The Dark Forces_," Hermes shrugged. "I thought you were reading it."

"I am—I just haven't got that far yet, probably," Harriet said, a little defensively. Excessive reading was Hermes' forte; Harriet was the Quidditch player and the Girl-Who-Lived. Rhona was the funny one, the pretty one. But Harriet _had_ been reading _The Dark Forces_, she just didn't absorb things like Hermes did; she had to reread things sometimes, whole passages, or look up a particularly strange word in her Wizarding dictionary. "So what _are_ Inferi? I haven't read the book yet."

"They're dead bodies that have been cursed to do the Dark Wizard's bidding, in simple terms," Hermes said, and Harriet felt him shiver slightly. "You-Know-Who killed enough people to make an army of them."

"Why would Regulus give me a book on them?" Harriet wondered, and continued to eat her soup. She had no idea what Horcruxes were, but knew she would find out in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_, and didn't have much appetite for reading up on Inferi, though she knew she should.

"Harriet, hi, Harriet!" Colin Creevey bounded up to her, his brother, beaming, in tow; "I have this for you." She glanced at Colin and smiled, swallowing hastily, tears springing into her eyes as the soup scalded the back of her throat, and accepted the scroll from Colin.

"Thanks," she managed to croak, going for a goblet of ice-cold water.

"Did you go to _Dervish and Banges_?" Colin asked eagerly.

"I did," Harriet nodded, smiling.

"I thought we could do some more printing, see how the paper works," Colin said, grinning, and Harriet nodded. "Before the next competition?"

"Competition?" Harriet glanced back at Colin from the addressee written in curly handwriting on the scroll.

"Yeah—every month we submit our favourite or best piece of work for a panel of student judges to evaluate," Colin beamed. "I've won three times! I could help you pick out the photograph you submit."

"O-oh, okay," Harriet nodded, smiling, unfurling the scroll as she smiled at Dennis Creevey.

"Wicked!" Colin grinned. "How about tonight? The lab is never busy on a Sunday. Too many people finishing their homework."

"Um…" Harriet glanced down at the scroll;

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_It would please me for you to accompany me for dinner this evening in my study. I will be entertaining another guest, an old colleague of mine, who I'm sure you will be very interested to meet, and vice versa._

_There is also a small matter I wish to discuss with you beforehand, so if I could ask you to come by my office at 5:30, I really wish you to sample the new Honeydukes fudge._

_Yours ever,_

_Albus Dumbledore_.

* * *

"Um…I'm sorry, Colin, I can't tonight—homework, like you said," Harriet said, wincing guiltily. "How about tomorrow night, after the club meeting?"

"Cool!" Colin grinned, and he and Dennis bounded off.

"I think you're being a little too friendly with him," Hermes warned quietly.

"Whaddaya mean?" Harriet blurted, almost splashing soup down her front.

"Well…he always has an especially big grin for you," Hermes said carefully, and Harriet knew he was fighting the urge to smirk indulgently. She stared at him, appalled.

"You're not insinuating Colin Creevey has a…a…a _crush _on me?" she gasped, horrified at the thought. She'd always liked Colin—he was a little boisterous, sometimes annoyingly cheerful and optimistic, but he was a _good_ boy. And then, she remembered what Cedric had said yesterday, '_You have an admirer_.'

"He's not the only one," Hermes said, turning his page in _Confronting the Faceless_, which was propped up against the coffeepot. Harriet stared at him, open-mouthed, and felt heat creeping into her cheeks, which had nothing to do with the hot soup she was consuming.

"What do you mean?"

"Honestly, Harriet, you are the _dimmest_ person sometimes!" Hermes laughed softly. He glanced at Rhona and licked his lips. "Look, I hear things in the boys' dormitories…a lot of boys have noticed that you're well…that you wear makeup and nice clothes now…by the way, your perfume is lovely…You're a lot more confident, too. That makes a big difference."

"_I'm_ confident," Rhona said defensively, frowning at them across the table. "_And_ I wear nice clothes and makeup and perfume."

"Yes, but you always have," Hermes said thoughtfully. "Everyone already knows you're pretty. It's just…people are starting to see past your scar, Harriet."

"What _things_ do you hear in the boys' dormitories?" Harriet asked curiously. Hermes blushed. "_Hermes_—_spill it_."

"I can't violate the guy-code," Hermes said, and kept mute, no matter how much the girls cajoled, no matter what they threatened him with—they had two months' worth of Divination predictions to choose from. But he kept mute, and Harriet suddenly became very suspicious of every boy in the room.

It was always advisable to be suspicious of Fred and George Weasley in any case, especially when they sat down beside Harriet and offered her bits of fudge "_from Honeydukes_." She flatly refused them and hurried Rhona up and out of the Great Hall.

* * *

They spent the duration of the walk back up to their dormitory talking about what Hermes could _possibly_ have heard in the boys' dormitories, and why he would possibly want to keep it from them, and how they could coerce him through magic or trickery to tell them. Rhona seemed particularly annoyed that Hermes had brushed aside her prettiness—"'_everyone already knows you're pretty_,' as if I'm old news!" Rhona said, flinging herself onto her bed. Harriet shrugged and clambered onto her bed in the well she had made of her pillows and duvet, her books and parchment scattered over the crimson duvet. She tugged _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ out of her trunk and _Inferi_, but it was a while before she and Rhona stopped guessing what Hermes was hiding from them.

"I'll bet it's scribbled on the back of the stall doors in the boys' loos!" Harriet said darkly, glaring at her photograph of her, Rhona and Hermes at the Burrow their last free day of holiday, in the garden. Cedric had taken the photograph, and they were all grinning and bathed in sunlight; Rhona and Harriet both had their heads resting on top of each other, and Hermes lay in Rhona's lap, smiling lazily.

"Yeah…hey, maybe you could get _Colin_ to snoop for you," Rhona smirked, her face brightening: She turned to teasing Harriet about Colin Creevey maybe having a crush on her and in the end Harriet undid her curtains just to block her view of Rhona's smug smile as she scribbled furiously in her diary.

She pulled out _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ and read until five o'clock, then remembered she had to meet Professor Dumbledore for dinner.

"What does he want to have dinner with you for?" Rhona asked curiously.

"I dunno—he says he's having an old colleague over," Harriet sighed, sifting through the contents of her trunk for something that wasn't school robes or inappropriate. She finally settled on a taupe dress with a four-button plaquet and tiny roses printed all over, and a blouson-sleeved cream cardigan with a pair of little flat pink shoes.

"Am I presentable?" Harriet asked, after pushing a brush through her hair. Rhona sighed, rolled her eyes, and tugged the thin headband from Harriet's bedside cabinet and handed it to Harriet.

"Alright, now go," Rhona sighed. "Report back with details."

"Do you think I should show him the books?" Harriet asked quietly, glancing at her trunk, inside which were locked the four books Regulus Black had given her.

"Dunno. He'd've left them to Dumbledore if he'd wanted him to see them," Rhona shrugged.

"Okay—hey, try and find out what Hermes knows," Harriet said, looping her little bag over her head, inside which was stored the Marauder's Map, her Invisibility Cloak and her wand, and Rhona nodded over the top of _Confronting the Faceless_ as she left the room. Harriet slipped through the castle to Professor Dumbledore's office, spoke "fudge" to the gargoyle, and was admitted upstairs.

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**A.N.**: Please review.

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	32. A Foggy Memory

**A.N.**: This chapter is in conjunction with the last, so I thought I had to add them together. Please let me know what you think!

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**A Foggy Memory**

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Professor Dumbledore sat in his throne-like chair behind his desk, his ankles crossed on the desk, reading the _Sunday Times_. He flicked his eyes over the top of his half-moon spectacles at her and smiled; "Good afternoon, Harriet."

"Good afternoon, sir," Harriet smiled.

"Did you enjoy your time in Hogsmeade yesterday?"

"I did, sir—I don't think my Gringotts account did, though," Harriet grinned. Dumbledore chuckled. With a rustle, Dumbledore folded his newspaper and set it down on the desk; the Pensieve stood ready on a little table beside the desk, and several phials of memories stood waiting in a little glass case.

"Very good…I must apologise, Harriet, for not giving you sufficient enough time to prepare," Dumbledore began. Harriet glanced at him, not sure what he meant. "At the last minute, my dinner guest decided to accept his invitation. There are several things I need to show you before he arrives, therefore I think it prudent we begin at once.

"You will remember where we left off last time, Harriet—Tom Riddle had abandoned his witch wife, Merope Gaunt, or, I should say, Merope Riddle." Harriet nodded. "Tom Riddle had returned to his home in Little Hangleton, leaving his wife in London."

"How d'you know she was in London?" Harriet asked wonderingly, standing up as Dumbledore did; she watched his hands; he held the phial in his right hand, and attempted to pluck out the tiny cork with his left; there was still a small spot of black—as if he had placed his fingertip on a blot of ink—about half a centimetre in diameter on his fingertip, and he had trouble gripping the cork. Harriet took the bottle from him without being asked or asking and uncorked it for him.

"Into the Pensieve, if you please then, Harriet," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the Pensieve. Harriet watched the strange silvery substance fall gracefully into the Pensieve. "We are about to hear the account of one Caractacus Burke."

"_Borgin and _Burke?" Harriet asked, remembering the name.

"The very same," Dumbledore nodded. He took the sides of the Pensieve and sifted it, as if looking for gold amongst grime. "You recall Merope's locket, Harriet?" She nodded, and watched the ghostly figure of a tiny man rise out of the silvery substance, revolving slowly.

"_Yes, we acquired it in curious circumstances. A young witch brought it in just before Christmas, many years ago now. Needed the gold—she had no other valuable possessions—I didn't second-guess her. Covered in rags. Very far along. Going to have a baby, you see. She told me the locket belonged to Salazar Slytherin…well, we get those sorts of claims every other day! But it had his mark alright, and just a few simple charms told me all I needed to know! The thing was priceless, it was, but she had no clue—she was happy with the ten galleons I gave her for it! Best bargain I ever made!_"

Another shake of the Pensieve, and Mr Burke disappeared.

"_Ten galleons_!" Harriet gaped. "I spent half that in _Madam Primpernelle's_!"

"Caractacus Burke was not famed for his generosity," Dumbledore said darkly, and Harriet wondered what he _was_ infamous for. Harriet frowned and sat down, leaning her cheek against her palm.

"Why would she sell it, though?" she asked softly, glancing at Dumbledore. "I mean, having a baby _is _expensive, to raise—aren't they? But the Weasleys…well, they don't have much money," Harriet flushed, biting her lip. "They raised six children, and Mr Weasley doesn't make what he _should_."

"You are very kind, Harriet," Dumbledore remarked tenderly, his eyes warm as he glanced at her, and he sighed heavily. "Had she used magic, Merope could have made her life and the life of the son she was expecting _very_ comfortable indeed, as you say."

"What do you mean, '_had she used magic_'?" Harriet asked. "She was a witch, wasn't she?"

"Indeed, she was. In the months after her father's and brother's arrests, Merope's talents grew tremendously. However, it is my belief that after her abandonment, Merope either ceased using her magic because she desired nevermore to be a witch, or that her heart was broken irreparably, causing her powers to drain from her. Such things can happen, sometimes."

"So…so she hadn't given birth yet, but Mr Burke mentioned she was probably due any time, and she sold the locket for money…what did she do with it?" Harriet wondered.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Dumbledore sighed sadly. "It is my guess Merope used the ten galleons for shelter, until such time as she was inclined to give birth…which leads us to the testament of Mrs Cole, the head matron of the orphanage in which Tom Marvolo Riddle grew up." A second phial, this time using his wand to unplug the cork, was emptied into the Pensieve, and a sharp-featured woman with dark-silver patches high in her cheeks revolved slowly.

"_I remember it clear as anything—I'd just started here myself! New Year's Eve and _bitterly_ cold, snowing, too. I remember the girl—I'm sorry to say it, her face wasn't one you'd forget, and not in a good way!—she staggered up the steps. Well, she wasn't the first, nor has she been the last since I've been here…shame. Well, we took her in; emaciated, she was, except for the bump. He was a big, healthy lad when he was born, in the hour we took her in. She'd died before another hour was out…Now that it happens, she did…I remember, she told me, 'I hope he looks like his papa', and I won't lie, she were right to hope it! She was no beauty in any measure! And she told me he was to be named Tom, after his father, and Marvolo—funny-sounding name, isn't it, we thought she was from the circus!—after _her_ father, and his surname was to be Riddle. Then she was gone, without another word…We named him as she asked, it seemed so important to her, but no Tom nor Marvolo nor any kind of Riddle ever came for the babe, so he's been here ever since… He's a funny boy._" Dumbledore shook the basin.

"_He scares the other children…I think he must be, but it's very hard to catch him at it. There have been incidents, nasty things, with the other children. Billy Stubbs's rabbit, well…Tom _claims_ he didn't do it, and I don't see how on earth he could have done, but, still…the rabbit didn't hang _itself_ from the rafters, did it? But I'm jiggered if I know how he got up there to do it. All I know is he and Billy argued the day before. And then on the summer outing—we take the children out, you know, to the country or the seaside for a little holiday—well, Amy Benson and Dennis Bishop never _were _quite right afterwards, and all we ever got out of them was that they'd gone into a cave with Tom Riddle. He said they'd gone exploring—but I'd bet my best frock _something_ happened in there…There have been a lot of funny things…I don't think many people will be sorry to see the back of him_."

Mrs Cole sank back into the basin and Dumbledore tutted softly.

"When did she tell you all that?" Harriet asked.

"Hm? Oh—you recall that Hagrid came to collect you from the Hut-on-the-Rock?" Dumbledore said. "It is customary for Muggle-born students, or those, like you, and like Tom Marvolo Riddle, who have been raised by Muggles, to be visited by a member of staff from the school to explain about the child's abilities. It was I who went to give Tom Riddle his acceptance letter, at the orphanage he had been born in."

"So he was eleven? He was using magic on the other orphans?" Harriet said disgustedly. She'd used magic, unintentionally and without any knowledge of what it was she was really doing. She was thrown back to her cupboard under the stairs, crying herself to sleep, feeling very cold because the draft through the crack in the door swept right over her freshly-shorn head, all except her fringe, which Aunt Petunia had left "_to hide that hideous scar!_" She had woken after a fitful night's sleep to a full head of thick, black, untidy hair to her shoulders. She'd earned a week in her cupboard for that. "That's not normal, is it, to be able to control your magic before starting here—I mean, I couldn't. If I'd've known I could cage Daisy into a python's tank at the zoo, I'd've done it years before!"

Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

"Indeed—you witnessed Mrs Cole's account of the young Tom Riddle. By the age of eleven, he was already using his powers to inspire fear, to punish and to control," Dumbledore said gravely. "There are several more memories I wish to show you. Therefore…" He uncapped two phials and emptied their contents, then gestured Harriet to enter the Pensieve. Harriet did so, and as the memory settled itself, Harriet found herself standing beside a metal bed, on which sat Tom Riddle, eleven years old, his father perfectly replicated in miniature, glaring at Professor Dumbledore, who sat on a rickety wooden chair, dressed in a quirky plum-velvet suit. His hair and beard were a rich auburn, and there were remarkably fewer lines on his face than the white-haired Dumbledore who appeared beside Harriet.

* * *

"…I am not from the asylum," Young Dumbledore was saying, "I am a teacher, and I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school nobody shall force you—"

"I'd like to see them try!" Riddle sneered. Even if Harriet hadn't known this boy was to become the darkest wizard in history, she would not have liked him: he was rude, contemptuous.

"Hogwarts is a school for people with special abilities," Dumbledore said, ignoring him, but Riddle interrupted again.

"I'm not mad."

"I know you are not mad," Dumbledore said patiently. "Hogwarts is not a school for the insane. It is a school of magic."

Riddle froze. His face was expressionless, but it was his eyes that betrayed him. They flickered between each of Dumbledore's, as if trying to see into his soul: Harriet knew that look from Snape.

"Magic?" Riddle whispered.

"Indeed."

"It's—it's magic, what I can do?"

"What is it that you can do?"

"All sorts of things," Riddle breathed, a flush of excitement rising up his hollow cheeks. "Things move without me touching them. Animals do what I want without me training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me…I _knew_ I was different," Riddle said passionately, to himself, "I knew I was special—always."

"You were quite right," Young Dumbledore said, and there was something intent in his gaze as he watched Riddle. "You are a wizard."

"Are you a wizard too?" Riddle asked, and Harriet had to roll her eyes—_Well, duh! If he's a _teacher_ of magic!_

"Yes, I am."

"Prove it!" Harriet stared at Riddle, open-mouthed. He was so _rude_. He spoke with a ringing force that was shocking: Harriet got the impression he used that commanding, imperious tone a lot.

"If you are accepting your place at Hogwarts—"

"Of _course_ I am!"

"—then you shall address myself and my colleagues as 'Professor,' or 'sir'," Young Dumbledore said gently, but there was a stern glint in his eyes not unlike the one Harriet noticed in Professor McGonagall's. Riddle's expression hardened; a muscle ticked in his jaw: he didn't like being told what to do.

Then he spoke, in an uncharacteristically _polite_ tone that shocked Harriet even further: "I'm sorry, sir—I meant—please could you show me, Professor," he said quietly. She wondered what the Ministry of Magic would have to say about Professor Dumbledore performing magic in the midst of a Muggle establishment, and was surprised when Young Dumbledore took his wand out of an inside pocket of his plum-velvet suit.

With a casual flick of his wand, looking almost bored, Young Dumbledore set the small wardrobe alight. Harriet wasn't surprised when Riddle howled with rage and launched himself off the bed: the wardrobe likely held all his worldly possessions.

Before Riddle could even round on Dumbledore, the flames had disappeared, the wardrobe quite intact. Riddle stared from the wardrobe to Dumbledore, eyeing the wand Dumbledore held with a greedy eagerness in his eyes Harriet recognised from her cousin Daisy. He pointed at the wand; "Where can I get one of them?"

Dumbledore disregarded the question: "I believe there is something in your wardrobe trying to get out." Harriet glanced at the wardrobe; a faint sort of rattling was heard from within the wardrobe. For the first time, Riddle looked _frightened_. The expression made him look a _lot_ more human, strangely a lot more handsome. "Open the door."

Riddle went to it, throwing open the door of the wardrobe after a split-second's hesitation. On the top shelf, above a rail of threadbare tunics like the grey one he wore, was a small cardboard box, which was shaking; the soft rattling came from within it, as if there were several tiny, frantic mice trying to escape.

"Take it out." Unnerved, Riddle took the box. "Is there anything inside that box you oughtn't to have?"

Riddle gave Young Dumbledore a long, calculating look, a sullen gleam in his eyes. "Yes, I suppose so, sir," he said without expression.

"Open it," Dumbledore directed patiently. Riddle tipped the contents of the box onto his bed. Harriet frowned; she had expected something more magnificent. It was a jumble of everyday items; a wooden, painted yo-yo, a mouth-organ, a gleaming silver thimble, a watercolour postcard of a sheer cliff, against which the stormy dark-grey sea pummelled with waves of crashing white surf. As soon as they were free, the items stopped quivering.

"You will return these things to their owners with your apologies," Dumbledore instructed gently, tucking his wand safely away. "Be warned—I shall know whether it has been done. You will find that thieving is not tolerated at Hogwarts."

Riddle didn't even have the decency—or rather, Harriet suspected, the _morality_—to look abashed. He stared at Young Dumbledore with a glare that was both cold and appraising. He had probably never met another wizard, someone who was even more talented than himself. "Yes sir," he said colourlessly."

"At Hogwarts, we not only teach you to use your magic, but to control it. You have—inadvertently, I am sure—been using your gift in a way that is neither taught nor tolerated at our school. You will not be the last to allow your magic to run away with you. Be warned that Hogwarts can expel students, banish them from magical learning, and the Ministry of Magic—oh, _yes_, there is a Ministry—severely punishes lawbreakers. It is important that young witches and wizards accept this upon entering our world."

"Yes sir."

Riddle's face was blank, expressionless; Harriet was reminded of the masks of the Death Eaters. He put the few items on his bed back into the box and turned to Young Dumbledore. "I haven't any money."

"We shall have remedy that, then," Dumbledore said briskly, taking out a large coin-purse full of jingling coins. "There is a fund for Hogwarts students in financial need, to buy books and robes. You may have to buy some of your spellbooks second-hand, but—"

"Where can I get them?" Riddle demanded, examining a gold galleon.

"In Diagon Alley," Dumbledore said, taking out an envelope Harriet noticed was addressed to _Tom Marvolo Riddle_, but unlike _her_ many acceptance letters, the ink was black, not emerald-green. "I have your list of books and equipment. I can help you find everything—"

"I don't need you," Riddle said rudely. "I do things for myself, go around London alone all the time. How do you get to this Diagon Alley—sir?" he added, after catching Dumbledore's eye. Dumbledore told Riddle exactly how to get to Diagon Alley, that Muggles would not be able to see the Leaky Cauldron but that _he_ would. "Ask for Tom the barman—easy enough to remember, as he shares your name—"

Harriet wondered why Riddle twitched; it looked almost compulsive. His expression was contemptuous.

"You dislike your name?"

"There are a lot of Toms," Riddle said muttered. Then a question burst forth from him, and Harriet knew, and could sympathise with him, that he hadn't been able to suppress it any longer. "Was my father a wizard? He was called Tom Riddle too, they've told me." At that particular moment, just the way Riddle was quiet, internal, Harriet felt a paper-cut of sympathy for him. She could relate to wanting to know about her parents, to learn things about them.

"I am afraid I do not know," Dumbledore said carefully. Harriet wondered, glancing at Older Dumbledore, whether he knew then what he did now about Merope Gaunt, or whether it had taken him the last few decades to discern as much as he had about Lord Voldemort.

"My mother can't have been a witch, or she wouldn't've died," Riddle said to himself, frowning. "It must've been him…So, when I've bought all my things—when do I come to this Hogwarts?" Young Dumbledore handed the envelope to Riddle, explaining about the Hogwarts Express.

Dumbledore got to his feet; Harriet realised then how _small_ Riddle was, though he was tall for an eleven-year-old. He was still a young child, but he behaved like an adult. Perhaps it was his coldness, his unnatural quiet. Dumbledore was almost at the door when Riddle spoke again;

"I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips—they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?"

Harriet could tell he was trying to impress Dumbledore; whether he had or not, Harriet didn't know; Dumbledore wasn't turned fully to Riddle.

"It is unusual," Dumbledore said with deliberation, eyeing Riddle shrewdly, "but not unheard of." His eyes moved curiously over Riddle's face. Perhaps, then, he realised he might have been in the company of a Dark Wizard without realising it—though there were definitely indications that he was a cruel child.

* * *

The memory changed, and Harriet vaguely recognised the interior of the Gaunt hovel—if in shape and the furnishings, not the indescribable level of filth it had acquired since Merope had run away with Tom Riddle Senior.

Something was snoring in the lone armchair. Harriet realised that it was a man, if only because it was snoring, and it grunted and jerked awake when someone knocked on the door. As with the first memory of the Gaunts, Morfin held both a wand and a bloody knife.

The door opened with a slow, irritating creak, and on the threshold stood Tom Riddle Jr, handsome and pale, his skin glowing in the light of an old-fashioned lamp. Only his eyes betrayed the contemptuousness with which he viewed his mother's family home. His eyes lingered on Morfin, still in his armchair. For a few seconds, neither spoke, neither moved; they just stared at each other. Then Morfin lurched out of his chair, brandishing his wand and knife, bellowing—"You_! _YOU_!_"

"_Stop_." Morfin stopped so suddenly he might have been Stupefied. He hurtled into the table and sent several crusty, disgusting pots to the grimy floor, cracking. Obviously Morfin had not imagined that this boy could speak Parseltongue, probably mistaking Riddle for his father.

"_You speak it_?"

"_Yes, I speak it_." Riddle moved into the room, closing the door behind him. Harriet gazed on in a sort of horrified wonder, a disgusted admiration at Riddle's complete and utter lack of fear. He was disgusted, yes, and perhaps a little disappointed—Harriet knew she would be too—by what he had found of his powerful Wizarding ancestors, the descendents of Salazar Slytherin himself.

"_Where is Marvolo_?" Riddle asked, his tone polite, his eyes sweeping over the hovel again, taking in the two rooms, one of which looked as if it hadn't been opened in years, so many cobwebs had grown across it.

"_Dead. Died years ago, didn't he_?"

"_Who are you_?"

"_I'm Morfin, ain't I_?"

"_You are Marvolo's son?_"

"'_Course I am, then…_" Morfin pushed the hair out of his eyes. Marvolo's ring glinted on his finger. "_I thought you was that Muggle_."

"_What Muggle_?"

"_That Muggle what my sister took a fancy to, 'course—that Muggle what lives over the valley in the Big House…_ _You look mighty like him, that Muggle. But he's older now, in 'e. He's older'n you now, come to think on it…He come back, you see…_"

"_Riddle came back_?" Voldemort hissed, and Harriet could feel his anger, though she couldn't feel the heat of the fire in the grate, or smell the stench of the hovel. She couldn't imagine what Riddle was thinking then, hearing that his mother had been abandoned.

"_Ar, he left her, and serve her right, marring filth!_" Morfin spat on the floor. "_Robbed us, mind! When she ran off with that filth! Where's the locket, eh? Where's Slytherin's locket?_" Morfin was working himself into a fit of anger; his resemblance to his father was uncanny here; Harriet remembered how quick Mr Gaunt had been to anger. "_Dishonoured us, she did, that little slut! Who're you to come here asking questions? It's over, innit…it's over_…"

Morfin staggered backward, and Riddle advanced. Everything went black, and for a few seconds Harriet couldn't see a thing. She didn't understand what had happened.

* * *

The memory changed for the second time, and they were now in a well-lit study—by the uniforms the half-dozen teenage boys wore, at Hogwarts. They sat around an older-looking man who rested in a winged armchair, a small glass of red wine in one hand, the other digging through a box of crystallised pineapple, his little feet resting on a small pouf. He was a large man, akin to Uncle Vernon, but good-natured-looking. He had a head of thick, shiny blonde hair, and a rather marvellous gingery-blonde moustache, but Harriet noticed there was a galleon-sized bald patch on his crown, and the gold buttons of his fantastic embroidered waistcoat were straining.

"This is my old colleague, Harriet, Horace Slughorn," Professor Dumbledore said, as there was quiet in the study and Slughorn searched through the box of pineapple. "He was the old Potions master before Professor Snape. And that, I am sure you will recognise, is Lord Voldemort."

He was recognisable immediately; he was almost excrutiatingly handsome, and he was the most relaxed in the room besides Professor Slughorn; Harriet noticed that the boys—all of them wearing the silver and grey ties of Slytherin house—were all sat on lower or harder chairs than Professor Slughorn. Harriet frowned, sweeping her eyes over Riddle; his arm lay negligently on the arm of the chair, and glinting in the firelight on his right hand was—

"Sir, isn't that Marvolo Gaunt's ring?" Harriet asked in a whisper, forgetting that only she and Dumbledore could hear them. But Riddle spoke.

"Sir, is it true that Professor Merrythought is retiring?" he asked casually.

"Tom, Tom, if I knew I couldn't tell you!" Professor Slughorn said, wagging a reproving sugar-coated finger at Riddle, though ruining the effect by chuckling and giving Riddle a wink. "I must confess I do wish I knew where you got your information, Tom. You're more knowledgeable than half the staff, you are!"

Again, just as in Dumbledore's memory of Riddle at the orphanage, the smile on Riddle's face did not make him more handsome. It made him look almost wild. The boys around him—Harriet guessed they must have turned out to be some of his first supporters—cast Riddle admiring glances and laughed softly.

"What with your uncanny ability to know things you shouldn't, and your careful flattery of the people who matter—you're quite right, pineapple is my favourite, thank you—"

Something chimed softly, and Harriet realised it was the little golden clock on Slughorn's desk. She counted the chimes; eleven.

"Good gracious, is it that time already?" Slughorn laughed in gently surprise. "You'd all better be off to bed boys, or we'll all be in trouble! Lestrange, I want your essay by tomorrow or it's detention—the same for you, Avery."

The boys filed out of the room one by one, leaving Riddle alone at last. Slughorn glanced over his shoulder and jumped slightly. "Look sharp, Tom, you don't want to be caught out of bed at this hour, and you a prefect!"

"Sir, I wanted to ask you something," Riddle said slowly, biting his lip thoughtfully.

"Ask away, then, m'boy, ask away…"

"Sir, I wondered what you know about…" But Riddle's last words were muted; everything went foggy, and Harriet watched Slughorn's expression—he squinted angrily at Riddle, then his anger flared violently, and he shouted at Riddle—

"_I don't know anything about that, and I wouldn't tell you even if I did! Now get out of here at once and don't let me catch you mentioning it again_!!"

* * *

"Er…" said Harriet, glancing up at Dumbledore. He was smiling blithely; he took her elbow gently, and a second later they were standing in his study. "What happened—with those last two memories? Why did they go all funny?"

"Morfin Gaunt's memory ended where it did because, after that, he remembered no more of his visitor," Dumbledore said quietly. "When he awoke in the morning, he was lying on the floor of his living-room with his wand by his side. Marvolo's treasured ring had disappeared."

"So Voldemort _did_ steal it!" Harriet blurted, shaking her head slightly. Dumbledore frowned slightly.

"You have been wondering about the ring?" he said quietly. Harriet bit her lip, and decided to just go with it: she told Dumbledore of her conversation with Rhona, Hermes and Sirius, about Voldemort taking the ring as a souvenir of the murder of his family. When she had finished, Dumbledore cocked his head to one side thoughtfully.

"I have to wonder why you do not put as much thought into your Divination homework," he said mildly, and Harriet flushed; he knew she had been making up her predictions. His eyes twinkled, however, and he winked. "Yes, Harriet, it was a most succinct observation. At the time Morfin awoke, a Muggle maid was running through the tiny village of Little Hangleton, screaming that there were three bodies in the drawing room of the Big House, as it was known; Tom Riddle Senior, his mother and his father. As far as I know, to this day the Muggle authorities still have absolutely no idea how they came to die.

"The Ministry of Magic, of course, knew it was a wizard murder—and they knew, also, that a convicted Muggle-hater lived just across the valley from the village. Ministry officials did not even need to use Veritaserum or Legilimensy—"

"Er—what, sir?"

"Veritaserum, Harriet, is the strongest Truth Potion in the Wizarding world. And Legilimensy—it is the ability to extract feelings and memories from another wizard's mind," Professor Dumbledore explained, and Harriet nodded. "As I said, neither of these methods was necessary on Morfin Gaunt—when officials arrived to question him, he admitted proudly to the murders, and even handed over his wand for examination."

"But he didn't kill anyone!" Harriet blurted. She didn't know how she knew, but she just did!

"Ah, but Morfin was _adamant_ he had killed the Riddles—proud he had avenged his father for Merope, having planned it all these years," Professor Dumbledore shook his head slightly. "He allowed himself to be carted off to Azkaban for a lifetime sentence, and his sole concern was his father's ring—'_He'll kill me for losing it_,' he told his captors, '_He'll kill me for losing his ring_.'"

"But…Riddle was wearing the ring, in that last memory, with Professor Slughorn," Harriet said, sitting up straighter and remembering. "He might've stolen…he might've stolen Morfin's wand _and_ the ring, and gone to his father's house to kill them, and returned with the wand, so he couldn't be incriminated if his own wand was confiscated."

"Your version of events that occurred that night is as close to my own as it can be," Dumbledore smiled. "Voldemort may well have taken the ring as a souvenir of the murder of the father who had abandoned his mother all those years ago—and for good measure, dispatched with his grandparents, thus obliterating the line: he was the last Riddle left. It is my belief that Voldemort then returned to the Gaunt hovel, returned the wand, and performed a very complex piece of magic—which my dear friend Horace has yet to master—of implanting false memories into his uncle, thus making it seem to everyone, even to Morfin himself, that he had committed the murder, when the evidence had amassed."

"Morfin didn't realise he hadn't done it?" Harriet gaped incredulously.

"Never," Dumbledore sighed. "He gave a full and boastful account of the murder, with such details as only the murderer himself could have known. Morfin lived out the remainder of his life in Azkaban, and is buried there beside the prison, alongside other poor souls who have expired within its walls."

"But…but…he knew Voldemort had been there, to see him," Harriet blurted indignantly. "How come he didn't remember—?"

"It took a great deal of skilled Legilimensy to coax that memory from Morfin," Dumbledore said softly. "In the last few weeks of his life, I managed to secure a visit to Morfin. Whilst the Wizengamot deliberated over their decision to free Morfin from Azkaban, he died."

"But Voldemort was underage when he killed his father—even if he _did_ use his uncle's wand—how come the Ministry didn't pick up on him?" Harriet asked.

"The Ministry can detect magic, yes, but not the perpetrator. Three years ago you were blamed wrongfully for the use of a Hover Charm in your aunt and uncle's house, which was performed, if I am correct, by a house elf named—"

"Dobby," Harriet narrowed her eyes; that injustice still rankled, though, of course, she would never complain on a tarnish on her record to Sirius. Like Morfin, he had been wrongfully accused and thrown in the bin. "So even if you're underage, inside a witch or wizard's house, nobody would be able to tell? How come the Weasleys don't let us use magic at the Burrow?"

"Ah, well, it is up to the parents in magical homes to exercise restraint on their children's use of magic during the holidays," Dumbledore said, smiling at the look of incredulity on Harriet's face. "Otherwise, like you have just learned with Morfin, the wrong person could be blamed for wrongdoing."

"Well that's _un-be-lievable_!" Harriet said passionately.

"My sentiments exactly," Dumbledore said.

"What about Professor Slughorn's memory?" Harriet asked. "Did Voldemort tamper with that one too?"

"No. Horace himself tampered with his own memory, though I must say his attempt was very poor indeed," Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Luckily that gives proof that the real memory lies within him still."

"Why would he want to change his own memory?"

"I imagine he is ashamed of what he remembers. I believe he is attempting to show himself in a better light," Dumbledore said. Harriet frowned and settled back, glancing over at her shoulder at the table beside the door, where her prophecy glowed softly.

"Sir…it was Marvolo Gaunt's ring that Voldemort was wearing, wasn't it," Harriet said quietly, glancing back at Professor Dumbledore.

"Indeed it was."

"So he'd already killed his father and grandparents," Harriet said quietly, frowning. What she'd read from _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ was coming back to her. Horcruxes. '_An object inside which a fragment of a person's soul is encased.' 'Even if one's body is destroyed, mutilated beyond repair, that fragment of soul remains, undamaged.'_ She and the others had hypothesised that Riddle would have stolen the ring to mark his father's and grandparents' murders—could he, perhaps, have—

There was a knock on the door.

Dumbledore took out a small gold pocket-watch, an eyebrow quirked amusedly. "Exactly on schedule. Excuse me, Harriet, while I—" Dumbledore took out his wand and gave it a small, complicated little wiggle: the Pensieve soared back into its cabinet with the phials of memories, a shawl draped itself over the little table by the door, hiding Harriet's prophecy, and in the centre of the round study stood a smallish table, set for dinner for three people. "Would you care to choose a record, Harriet, I find Muggle music to have a far greater range. In the cupboard, over there," Dumbledore directed, and Harriet glanced at the cupboard whose doors sprang open before walking over to it, as Dumbledore hastened to get the door.

* * *

**A.N.**: Sorry it's a bit long. I needed to get it all in.

* * *


	33. Horace Slughorn

**A.N.**: To _SlytherclawXHuffledor_, this is my integration of HBP into the _Goblet_ _of_ _Fire_, please enjoy!

* * *

**Horace Slughorn**

* * *

Into the room, protuberant belly first, came Horace Slughorn. He was bald, now, aged, and his great walrus moustache was silver, and very much larger than before, when Voldemort was a boy. Harriet, concealed by the door of the cabinet (which she believed had been intentional by Dumbledore) caught a glimpse of Horace Slughorn exchanging a large bottle of something that might have been wine or mead to Professor Dumbledore, and the two clasped hands firmly and greeted each other like old friends.

Harriet sifted through a small selection of records—FleetwoodMac, EvaCassidy, Celestina Warbeck, Elvis Presley—_Dolly Parton_! Harriet scoffed gently to herself, grinning. _Dumbledore likes Dolly Parton_! She put the _Fleetwood Mac_ record, because their CD had been the only one Daisy had hated enough from a birthday to discard into her second bedroom, so that Harriet, using the portable CD-player she had managed to repair, had been able to listen to it and fall in love with the music.

"…journey wasn't terrible?"

"Horrible," Professor Slughorn grumbled, groaning loudly as he settled down in an armchair by Dumbledore's fire. Harriet set the needle down on the record and retreated from the cabinet, wondering what she should do with herself.

"Ah, Harriet, do come and sit down," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a dainty little pale-pink fireside chair that was just perfectly sized for her, beside Professor Slughorn's large, squashy armchair. With a creak, Professor Slughorn had whirled around in his armchair, staring open-mouthed at Harriet. His eyes did the familiar flicker up to her scar, which was very visible due to the headband Rhona had slipped into her hair, and he gaped. "O_ho_! _Oho_!"

"Horace, this is Harriet Potter," Dumbledore said kindly, smiling at Harriet as she lingered by the side of her chair, wondering whether she should shake hands or curtsy or something. "Harriet, this is a dear friend of mine and an old colleague, Horace Slughorn."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Professor Slughorn," Harriet said, holding out her hand.

"But she _does_ look like James," Slughorn gasped softly, taking Harriet's slender, little hand with his large, beefy one and shaking. Harriet gave a small grin; she liked hearing she looked like her parents. Anything about them…she was entranced when Sirius spoke about James and Lily. "_Aah_, and there's Lily," Slughorn said, peering into Harriet's face, particularly at her eyes. "Dear Lily's eyes…and her smile," he said quietly. He glanced at Dumbledore, and Harriet thought he looked annoyed as she sat down.

"Don't think I don't know why you've invited _her_, Dumbledore," he said sharply. Harriet sat awkwardly, glancing from Dumbledore to Slughorn.

"Well, if you object to Harriet's company, I'm certain her friends will be more than willing to have her return early from her lesson," Dumbledore said casually, and Harriet nodded thoughtfully; Hermes and Rhona were probably waiting to hear everything she could remember. Sirius had been annoyed that Dumbledore had asked him _not_ to accompany Harriet to her lessons with him, but he would want to know what happened at any rate.

"I didn't say that!" Slughorn said impatiently, glancing at Harriet. He sighed heavily and turned in his seat so he sat facing her more than Dumbledore. "You'll be in Gryffindor, like your parents, I suppose."

"Er—yes," Harriet nodded.

"Mm…I _always_ said Lily should have been one of mine," Mr Slughorn said, shaking his head. "One of the brightest I ever taught—she could've gone places, if she hadn't…well." Perhaps he caught sight of Harriet's expression, the way her chin lowered with her eyelashes and her cheeks sucked in, at the same time growing very hot, or perhaps Dumbledore stoking the fire may have distracted him from his thought, but either way, he didn't continue his thought on what he could have been if Lily Evans hadn't got herself murdered for protecting her only daughter.

Harriet licked her lips.

"Which was your House?" she asked quietly.

"Mine? I was Head of Slytherin," Mr Slughorn said, and Harriet wrinkled her nose. "Oh, now, don't go holding that against me, my dear! You'll be like Lily, I suppose—Vivacious, she was, very charming. One of the most talented I ever taught—very cheeky answers I got back from her, when I said she should've been Slytherin." Harriet was reminded of her own Sorting. Had the Sorting Hat perhaps considered Lily for Slytherin, too?

"You shouldn't have favourites, as a teacher, but Lily was one of my all-time favourites," Slughorn said slowly, as if savouring the words. "James, too. _Criminally_ bright, the both of them, I always thought. Is Harriet talented, Dumbledore?"

"Oh, extremely," Dumbledore said without hesitation. Harriet flushed and fidgeted.

"Not _that_ talented," Harriet mumbled embarrassedly.

"Humble, too, like Lily," Slughorn said, gazing at Harriet affectionately. It was easiest to see Harriet's mother in her eyes.

"Harriet was the youngest Quidditch player in a century to join a House team," Dumbledore said, smiling affectionately at Harriet.

"O_ho_!" Slughorn said excitedly. "You ever seen a professional match, Harriet?"

"Er—yes. Mr Weasley took his family, and me and my best-friend Hermes Granger to see the Quidditch World Cup final this summer," Harriet said, beaming.

"You ever hear of the Holyhead Harpies?" Slughorn asked.

"Yes sir, they're my favourite team," Harriet grinned.

"Well, Gwenog Jones, the captain of the Holyhead Harpies, _she_ was an old student of mine—very talented player, she was—she gives me free tickets to Harpies games whenever I want them," Slughorn smiled, nodding as if Harriet had made a noise of disbelief.

* * *

Harriet didn't quite know what was going on: She let Professor Dumbledore and Mr Slughorn choose the topics of conversation, and was very pleased they didn't go into anything too technically magical. They talked of Quidditch, of Slughorn's career as the Potions Master—"Yes, I retired the year your parents…well…after that horrible, horrible night…everyone rested after that night…" and they talked of the Quidditch League, and how Harriet was finding Hogwarts, what it had been like being raised by Muggles, and could she _really_ produce a corporeal Patronus.

"A _stag_?" Slughorn breathed, when Harriet had pulled out her wand and produced her Patronus. Prongs cantered once around the study, silvery and beautiful, before disintegrating into nothingness. "Has it _always_ been that way?"

"Always," Harriet nodded.

"Who taught you to produce a Patronus that powerful?" Slughorn asked, examining her face as if weighing her up.

"Professor Lupin, last year," Harriet said.

"Lupin?" Slughorn glanced at Professor Dumbledore. "_Remus_ Lupin?"

"The very same," Dumbledore nodded.

"Remus was my favourite teacher," Harriet said quietly, sighing softly; she had yet to receive another letter from Remus; she had sent a long reply to Remus and the chocolate bars, and she wanted to know more about Bathilda and Tonks.

"Never very great at Potions," Slughorn said slowly, frowning at the mantelpiece. "Wonderful writer, of course, excellent marks for his essays, but the practical work…Lily and Severus, they stole the show during Potions lessons…"

Harriet glanced up.

"D'you mean Professor Snape?"

"Of _course_, dear girl! Never saw one without the other, did you, Albus," Slughorn chuckled. Harriet glanced at Dumbledore; while his expression was not stormy, his eyes had darkened: Harriet realised Professor Slughorn had said something he shouldn't. She pressed her advantage.

"Do you mean my mother was friends with Professor Snape?" she asked.

"Of course! Quite the double-act, they were; always sat next to each other in my lessons," Slughorn nodded. "Never a more talented twosome have I ever met—except James and Sirius."

Harriet stared open-mouthed at Slughorn. _Mum was _friends_ with Snape?_

"But—but Snape _hates_ me!"

"_Professor_ Snape, Harriet," Dumbledore reprimanded softly.

"Why did they ever stop speaking, Albus, do you know?" Slughorn asked, frowning thoughtfully. "Happened before their N.E.W.T. year didn't it—I remember, as Lily chose to sit with Sirius Black that first lesson of term."

"Sirius?"

"Your father's best-friend," Slughorn chuckled. "I've never met a more talented troublemaker in all my time teaching! Shame, how he turned out, in the end…I had his brother, you see, Regulus. I had the whole Black family, actually, save Sirius…I'd've liked him in my club—"

"Club, sir?" Harriet asked quietly.

"The Slug Club," Slughorn beamed. "Anybody who wanted to be anybody wanted to be in the Slug Club—but only my absolute favourites of all made it on the wall. Lily's still there, you know, right at the front… Yes—Sirius Black, he was a _very_ talented boy, very talented indeed, wasn't he Dumbledore…"

* * *

If dinner hadn't appeared on the dining-table, Harriet might never have interrupted Slughorn in the middle of a ranting story about catching Harriet's father and Sirius streaking through the Charms corridor because Lily had charmed all their clothes away for apparently turning her hair bright purple and her skin polka-dot pink during ransfiguration in their sixth year. They sat down to a full roast-pork dinner with all the trimmings; Slughorn and Harriet fought good-naturedly over the crackling from the pork and the apple-sauce.

Harriet noticed that Slughorn's glass remained full no matter how much he drank. Dumbledore had poured Harriet a little glass of red elf-made wine. It was very yummy, mulled with orange and cinnamon and other spices, but she only took little sips in between asking Slughorn questions.

She had never learned so much about her parents as she had from this one objective outsider. She still couldn't get round to the fact that her _mother_ had been best-friends with Professor _Snape_—because Slughorn was adamant they had been almost inseparable until puberty, though she was a Gryffindor, he Slughorn's most prized Potions student, in Slytherin. Though they had remained fast friends, Slughorn said he suspected they had fallen out during the summer before their first N.E.W.T. year, and Harriet had to wonder why.

After a dessert of bread-and-butter pudding with fresh vanilla custard, Professor Dumbledore brought out another bottle of matured mead from Madam Rosmerta. Fawkes started cooing softly and Dumbledore went over to him.

"Magnificent animal, isn't he," Slughorn said wistfully, gazing at Fawkes. He glanced at Harriet. "Do you have any pets, Harriet?"

"An owl, Hedwig," Harriet said. "Hagrid gave her to me, for my birthday, when I was eleven."

"_Sweet_," Slughorn crooned softly, his eyes glittery. "I had a fish, once—Francis. He was very dear to me…One morning I came downstairs and Francis had vanished…_poof_."

"That's very odd, isn't it?" Dumbledore said, eyebrows raised, sipping his wine.

"Yes, isn't it! But that's life!" Slughorn declared, sloshing a little of his wine on the arm of his armchair as he waved the glass in his hand, shifting his enormous weight in the seat of the chair. "You—you go along with it and then, suddenly—_poof_."

"Poof," Dumbledore said sadly, his eyes distracted behind his glinting half-moon spectacles.

"Poof," Harriet whispered, looking into her wine. She was thinking about Moody's lesson on the Unforgivable Curses. _Poof_, she thought. _Out like a light_. Dumbledore got up to change the record, which had reached its end, and put on Simon and Garfunkel.

"It was a student who gave me Francis," Slughorn said quietly, shifting in his seat so he spoke solely to Harriet. "One day I came down to my office, and there was a bowl with only a few inches of clear water in it. And there was a flower petal floating on the water. Before my eyes it started to sink, and just before it hit the bottom, it transformed into a wee fish," Slughorn whispered, leaning very close to her, staring at Harriet with moist, glittery eyes; he looked as if he might start crying any moment. His voice was so…love-struck, so wistful when he spoke, so heartbroken: "It was a _beautiful_ piece of magic, _wondrous_ to behold… The flower petal was from a lily… The day Francis disappeared was the day your mother...

"Don't think I don't know why he's brought you here tonight, Harriet…I _can't_ give it to you, I can't…"

"Please, sir," Harriet whispered. She had heard so much of her parents tonight, more than even Sirius had managed to yet tell her. Slughorn had known her mother, had taught her and had loved her. "Please… She died to save me, you know…so I could finish him… Please don't let her sacrifice go wasted."

For a few moments, Harriet thought he might've fallen asleep…only he had his eyes open. He paused for that long, staring at her unblinkingly, then slowly, very slowly, he pulled his wand out of his embroidered velvet jacket and pressed the tip to his temple.

"Please don't think ill of me, my dear," Slughorn whispered. "You have no idea what he was like…even then." Something nudged Harriet's hand, and she noticed a small crystal phial nudging her. She picked it up and held it out for Slughorn; he extricated something silvery, like long strands of hair, but it wasn't his hair, because he was bald…it was his memory, and Harriet steadied his hand as he placed the tip of his wand, and the memory, on the rim of the phial.

Harriet knew she had been invited to this dinner solely for this single purpose—to obtain this memory. She knew in some way it would have something to do with Horcruxes: she knew that, looking back, there had been something far more sinister in Riddle's diary than a mere memory. Memories didn't think for themselves, drain the life from a little girl. If her and her friends' speculations had been correct about Voldemort collecting Marvolo's ring as a souvenir…perhaps he had made _that_ into a Horcrux, too. The diary certainly was one.

"Goodnight, Horace, and goodbye," said Professor Dumbledore, a few minutes later, as Horace Slughorn staggered drunkenly down the stairs, calling a good-natured goodbye to his two dinner companions. The study door closed on him, and finally, there was quiet.

Now that Slughorn wasn't talking, now that he wasn't waffling on about Barnabas Cuffe and Gwenog Jones, now that she had absolute quiet in which to sit and just _think_…she didn't know her parents at all.

She didn't know who their friends were besides Sirius and Remus—but then, those were James's friends; his first, then Lily's when they had started going out in their seventh year. How had they come to be together if, as Slughorn had said, Lily had regarded James as "an ignorant little tart?"

When had they joined the Order of the Phoenix? How—in the short time between leaving Hogwarts and having Harriet—had they both "_twice defied_" Lord Voldemort? What was James's favourite Quidditch team? Did Lily listen to Muggle music, as a Muggle-born? Had it been love at first sight? Had they already decided to get married before leaving Hogwarts? Or had a near brush with death prompted them to get married and start a family? Where did they get married, and who were their guests? Did Lily's father give her away? Had he already died before then?

Where did Lily's red hair come from, and did Harriet resemble her Grandfather Potter or her Grandmother Potter at all? Was she "cheeky" and "vivacious" like her mother—she knew she wasn't fabulously talented, as her parents were always both famed to be.

Why could her mother have ever seen past Snape's greasy hair and love of the Dark Arts enough to be _best-friends_ with him? How come Snape had always treated her with such _loathing_—such open contempt? Did he hate her for marrying his boyhood rival? Did he hate _her_, Harriet, for being James's daughter?

She wanted to know.

"Harriet?" She glanced up and noticed Dumbledore watching her. "You'd better get off to your common-room, it's almost curfew."

"Oh…Aren't we going to watch the memory?" she asked.

"Not this evening, no; I believe your thoughts are tumultuous enough," Dumbledore said quietly, and Harriet nodded; she couldn't agree more. She bid goodnight to Dumbledore and made her way downstairs.

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**A.N.**: PLEASE REVIEW!!!

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	34. Nagini

**A.N.**: Um…yeah, please review!

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**Nagini**

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The first half of the next week passed quickly: mostly it was governed by excess homework and talking about the memories Harriet had witnessed, and what it meant that Riddle had stolen his grandfather's ring the night he murdered his other grandparents and his father—and how it fit into the books Regulus Black had left for her specific use. Sirius didn't get much opportunity to reveal himself over the next few days; as September had ended and October begun, the teachers had seen fit to redouble homework loads to all their students, and it became later and later when the last students filtered out of the common room, tired-eyed and miserable, their hands cramped up from writing so much. It was usually so late that Sirius didn't like to wake her when the girls had gone to sleep, and they had spent so much time agonising over the possibility that Voldemort had made a Horcrux that it took her to Wednesday afternoon, finishing her History of Magic essay on the Goblin Rebellion of 1895 during lunchtime, when the bell rang for Potions.

She had been sleeping very deeply the last few nights, so tired from homework and talking with Hermes, Rhona and Sirius about Dumbledore's lessons and what Slughorn's memory might hold that she hadn't dreamt at all. Usually she had very vivid dreams—last time, Rhona had been doing the tango in Aunt Petunia's living-room curtains to the Viennese Waltz with a giant pure-white ferret while Hermes played the spoons, wearing Dumbledore's favourite midnight-blue robes and Slughorn's magnificent silver moustache.

She rolled up her almost-completed History of Magic essay and tucked it into her bag, picked up her Potions book and traipsed after Rhona and Hermes, who were bickering good-naturedly about Rhona wanting help on their latest Transfiguration essay, in unnaturally high spirits considering she was going to Potions, with _Snape_.

But Harriet hadn't come face-to-face with Snape since Slughorn had slipped up on Sunday. She still hadn't got the nerve up to go and ask him outright about it, but she couldn't think Slughorn would have lied, not when everything else he had told her about Lily and James had been so close to the mark, just like the stories Sirius told her about her parents.

She wondered what would happen when he found out she knew one of his secrets. Because it had to be, she thought, otherwise why would he be so horrendously vicious to her all the time?

She filed into the dungeon classroom behind Malfoy, resisting the urge to step on the back of his robes, and took a seat beside Rhona. The lesson began as usual; they were brewing antidotes.

"God I hate this lesson," Rhona whispered, flicking through her battered second-hand textbook, which was torn, ripped, smudged, and soiled in every way possible, to the page she had marked with a worn dog-ear. Harriet nodded, glancing up the classroom at Snape, who was congratulating Malfoy on the fantastic start he was already making on his antidote.

Harriet had been working too hard last night; she'd woken with her scar prickling in a sort of irritated way, but it had worn off before breakfast. Perhaps it was the fumes, or the heat from the fires, but it all went straight to her head, and she wished someone would take a cleaver to her skull to stop it splitting in two so slowly.

* * *

She gave into it, the pain: She felt smooth, powerful and flexible. Gliding over dusty cool wood, the stench of fifty years' rotting wood overpowering most senses, she was flat on her stomach, and slithered her way into the sole room lit with a single small grate. It was dark, but objects shimmered with strange, vibrant colours as she slithered into the room, around the man cowering on the floor in dark robes before the sole winged armchair; she glided up onto the arm of the armchair and draped herself over the back of it, her head dangling beside her master.

Slightly larger than the average human child, completely hairless and scaly, a dark, raw, reddish black: arms and legs brittle, its face was flat, snakelike, buried deep in a thick, warm black cloak. He hissed softly to her, welcoming her back, "_Nagini_." She flicked her tongue over the air and tasted the cowering man's scent—petrified.

"The—the prophecy, my Lord," Avery stammered, gulping loudly: Nagini tasted the air; she could taste his cold sweat and his fear.

"What of it?" said the high, cold voice, no more human than her own. She hissed gently.

"M-my l-Lord, it is gone," Avery stammered, gulping loudly.

She was filled with an anger so venomous, so blisteringly white-hot that she struck, acting for her master for he could not. She struck many times, biting and hissing.

"_Harriet!_" Someone was screaming irately, anger coursed through her veins like white-hot lava. Someone slapped her across the face, and she fell quiet.

She didn't know what had happened, or where she was; she was vaguely aware of being on her back against something hard and cold, but that was it; everything above was dark except a few foggy blurs of white. She blinked and squinted, and recognised a few of the faces—Rhona, white-freckled, Hermes, looking anxious; Snape, frowning and murmuring something softly. She was aware of the wand pointing at her forehead, and groaned softly as she pulled herself into a sitting position against what she felt was the back wall of the classroom.

"Are you alright, Harriet?" Hermes asked tenderly.

"'Course she's not bloody alright! She collapsed!" Rhona snapped irritably. Harriet sat up and put a hand to her head; it pounded unbearably.

"Mr Malfoy," Snape said coolly, glancing over his shoulder; Harriet cringed at the sound of the voices and the loud scrape of a chair against the floor. It was a migraine such as she had never suffered before. It hurt to sit up; it hurt to have Hermes whisper worriedly, it hurt to see the flickering flames beneath the cauldrons and the lamps on the walls. "Take Miss Potter to the Hospital Wing—and take your things, too, it is almost the end of the lesson."

"Yes sir," she heard Malfoy say politely, and several people were helping her off the floor; the world swam and she had to suppress the urge not to vomit. She panted and clung to the person who held her upright with a firm grip around her arms but when she had to stagger to the door, she just felt fresh waves of violent nausea sweep over her.

She didn't know how far she had gotten, but soon enough she was sinking heavily to the floor, wanting nothing more than to just curl up and stay there. "Come _on_, Potter…" She panted, feeling extremely sick, and sighed gratefully at the feel of the intensely cold floor pressed against her burning scar. It tempered it, made it that much more bearable, though her brain still felt like it was pulsing in an intense electrical current.

She felt something crack softly; it was Malfoy's knee, as he knelt down beside her. For a few seconds nothing, just blissful quiet, cold. She felt a hand on her back and he rubbed it up and down tentatively, as if was…_trying to make her feel better_. She still felt extremely sick to her stomach, but the pain in her head was lessening under the influence of the cool stone dungeon corridor, to a point where it was almost bearable to move her head and change the angle that received the soothing cold.

"Are you going to be sick?" Malfoy asked gently, and she didn't detect a single bit of disgust in his voice. She gulped, and very slowly, shook her head.

"Don't _think_ so," she chanced, clamping her mouth shut again. Cool fingertips pressed gently against her forehead.

"Hold on a minute—you're burning," he said gently, and it didn't hurt as much as before to have anyone speak. She heard him rummage around in what she presumed was his bag. "_Scourgify_," he said quietly, and then, "_Congelo_."

And something marvellously cold, colder than the floor, pressed against the part of her forehead that wasn't pressed to the stone. She closed her eyes luxuriously, revelling in the feel of the frozen handkerchief pressed against her skin. She rolled slowly onto her back and allowed help to sit against the wall; kneeling over her, Malfoy held the handkerchief to her forehead as she raised a weak hand.

"What happened?" he asked softly, and had Harriet been more in her usual state of mind, she may have noticed that, for the first time in her life, he had sounded _concerned_ for her.

She was still panting—she felt as if she had the flu violently. Cold sweats and intense nausea. Every inch of her ached, she was a little delirious still, and she couldn't answer him.

"Don't know," she whispered hoarsely, licking her dry lips. What she wouldn't give to go and jump in the lake right now. And then curl up in a ball and die.

"Can you make it to Madam Pomfrey?" he asked.

"Maybe," she whispered. He helped lift her off the floor and allowed her to lean heavily on him as they made their way upstairs.

* * *

In the hospital wing, Harriet was deposited slowly onto a cot and Malfoy went to get Madam Pomfrey; she cringed and felt her stomach go all over the place when the bell rang for the end of the lesson, and Malfoy was met halfway down the corridor—Harriet saw him, making sure she had successfully remained _on_ the bed while Madam Pomfrey examined her—by Professor Dumbledore, who looked grave.

"Thank you, Mr Malfoy," he said kindly, before sweeping up to Harriet's bed and taking the seat beside it. Madam Pomfrey made her drink a small potion to settle her stomach—it worked instantly, and Harriet suddenly realised her entire body had been tensed because of the pain of it. She relaxed onto the bed, feeling her sore muscles screaming, and allowed Madam Pomfrey to make all the necessary investigations into her state of health.

"Mr Malfoy says you collapsed during your Potions lesson," Dumbledore said quietly, his forget-me-not blue eyes slightly darker than usual, their twinkle less glittery. Harriet eyed Madam Pomfrey, who had deemed her in complete health, though with a fierce migraine, and unfortunately had not enough potions remaining to cure her, therefore had to brew a fresh batch.

"I…Professor, it was…it was like the dream," Harriet said. That was the only way she could describe it. "It was in the same place."

"Please tell me what you saw, Harriet," Dumbledore murmured, plainly trying not to cause her more pain than she was already suffering with her pounding head. Madam Pomfrey returned with black-out curtains to set around her bed and an eye-mask, and a pair of pyjamas. When she had retreated, Harriet told Dumbledore everything she could remember.

"How did you see this, Harriet?"

"Er—in my head!"

"No—no, you misunderstand me," Dumbledore said quietly. "From which viewpoint did you see all of this? Where were you positioned whilst you watched Mr Avery's murder?"

"Um…I was a snake—I _know_ I was a snake—or _it_ was a snake, because Voldemort spoke Parseltongue to me—_it_. He called m—_it_ 'Nagini'. I murdered Avery. I kept biting him," Harriet said, troubled. She settled back into the soft pillow and wanted very much to close her eyes and block all thought.

"Professor, why did Snape have his wand on me when I woke up?" Harriet asked quietly.

"_Professor_ Snape, Harriet," Dumbledore reprimanded casually. "I expect he can answer for himself—Severus."

"Headmaster…" Harriet dozed off, her head still panging every time she moved it, and heard soft murmurs from the professors. Madam Pomfrey returned a little while later with a freshly brewed Migraine Potion.

* * *

Instant reprieve; she relaxed into the bed. Still horrified over what she'd seen—what she had _done_. She had witnessed and committed the murder of a Mr Avery…_Because my prophecy was gone_…_What's going to happen now?_ _What's he going to _do_ now?_

She couldn't imagine Voldemort could be up to anything much—she had seen _him_, seen what he was, and wanted desperately now to go back to Regulus Black's books to see what they made of someone of that description. Not an Inferius, definitely not a human being, because the face was too flat, snakelike.

Some time later, when her migraine had gone completely and she was fidgeting restlessly, Madam Pomfrey discharged her from the hospital wing: she returned to Gryffindor common-room and was met by Padfoot (who wasn't allowed into the hospital wing, despite the amount of time he had spent whining and scratching at the doors) who led her over to Rhona and Hermes, who had claimed the two best armchairs and were working together on something.

Harriet noted the words '_Get_' and '_Soon_' inscribed on the front of the folded parchment and smiled to herself, but didn't see any further, as when they noticed her, whole and well and returned from the hospital wing, Rhona shoved the card into the depths of her messy bag.

Having taken a nap in the hospital wing, Harriet was a lot more awake than usual and went upstairs to gather Regulus' books: when the common room slowly started to empty, she took over the squashy armchair by the sofa and Padfoot sprawled across it luxuriously, waiting for Fred and George to go to bed.

As soon as they were gone, Sirius the man sat up, alert and concerned, biting his lip with worry as he scanned his eyes over Harriet's face. "Dumbledore told me."

"Everything?" Harriet asked, scanning page 74 of _Secrets of the Darkest Art_.

"Everything. But tell me again what you saw," Sirius said gently. So Harriet sighed heavily, closed her book, and told him. Hermes and Rhona were appropriately shocked and Sirius looked very pale, his light grey eyes darker than usual, when she described what Voldemort had been reduced to. Hermes had taken _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ and was flicking through the pages frantically.

"It says here that…" Hermes frowned, scanning over one particularly long passage, "that…Okay," Hermes sighed, "Say I killed you, Rhona—"

"Oh, thank you; have you been planning this for quite some time, or is it a spur-of-the-moment thing, in the heat of passion?" Rhona asked tartly, glaring at Hermes.

"I'm being _hypothetical_," Hermes glared back. "Play along, please—Say I killed you, maimed your body beyond any recognition or repair, your soul would still remain intact, yes, even though you would be _dead_? Your soul survives. But if you were to _split_ your soul, encase a part of it into something—like Riddle's diary, because I think you're right, Harriet, it _was_ a Horcrux, it can't have been just mere memories—then you would be _unable_ _to_ _die_, because that second part of your soul is elsewhere."

"So you think Voldemort only survived because the diary was a Horcrux? He'd put part of his soul into it?" Harriet frowned, eyeing the book. She'd guessed something like that too, once she'd begun reading further into that disgusting book.

"Yes—but _you_ destroyed it, Harriet," Hermes frowned. "That should leave You-Know-Who much more vulnerable than he is."

"He looked pretty vulnerable to me already," Harriet said.

"I think," Sirius said slowly, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully at _Secrets of the Darkest Art_, "that you should entertain the possibility that Voldemort could have considered making more than _one_."

"More than one Horcrux—but that's—!"

"_Horrific_," Hermes said, glancing at Harriet, who couldn't quite voice her disgust. _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ warned against making even _one_ Horcrux—because it made the wizard who'd made the Horcrux, the _soul_ of the wizard, extremely unstable… But then…

"When I asked Dumbledore about the ring—you remember—I asked him if it had memories in it like the diary did," Harriet said slowly, glancing around at her friends. "He didn't answer, did he—not directly, at least."

"It's possible he could have made more," Hermes said quietly. "Inadvisable, but possible. Why would he want to, though?"

They mulled over the reasons why Voldemort would want to create more than one Horcrux when the vulnerability it put the soul under advised against it: they always came down to the same thing; to ensure he had as many precautions to prevent his death as possible.

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**A.N.**: Please review

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	35. Occlumensy

**A.N.**: My favourite chapter I've written is 37, and I really want to upload it, so I've decided to update another few chapters!

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**Occlumensy**

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Harriet received no note from Professor Dumbledore asking her to return to his study for examination of Slughorn's memory. Since Sunday night, as he had rightly guessed, her thoughts had been utterly tumultuous: Thursday morning brought no brilliant thoughts of clarity. She had had several strange dreams—strangest of all being Sirius the dog in tails and a top-hat and a kilt, doing a two-step to the bagpipes, played by Professor McGonagall, while Dobby and Winky did the fox-trot, and Nagini the snake slithered around with a tray of glasses filled with Horace Slughorn's elf-made wine balanced on her tail. The best of her dreams was by far the one of Cedric.

They'd only been walking slowly around the lake. He'd been holding her hand, that was it, smiling at her. Just holding her hand, and that had been _lovely_.

She sat at breakfast early on Saturday morning, eating her way through a piping bowl of creamy porridge crusted with sugar that too-chipper-for-eight-a.m.-Hermes had put in front of her, Rhona pouring them tea with only one eye half-open, still grumbling because they'd only managed to finish their latest Transfiguration essay on Switching Spells at two o'clock in the morning. Hermes had demanded they be up and dressed to finish their homework early, but Sirius had had a particularly difficult time of waking Harriet. A timid-looking first year with bright eyes stepped tentatively to her, holding a small scroll, sealed with black wax.

"H-Harriet," she said softly, teetering closer, and Harriet glanced at her over the brim of her teacup.

"Yeah?"

"I-I have this for you," she said quietly, and handed Harriet the note. Harriet took it and smiled sleepily.

"Thanks," she said. The girl looked delighted as she ran back to her little circle of friends down nearer to the staff table and Harriet glanced at the scroll. Harriet only knew who had written it because she recognised the way the 'a' was written in her name. Wondering what on earth Snape could have to say to her in a note that he wouldn't dare telling her outright, Harriet broke the seal and unfurled the scroll.

* * *

_Potter,_

_In accordance with Professor Dumbledore's wishes, you are to report to my office at seven p.m. this evening for a private tutorial,_

_Snape_.

* * *

"'_Private tutorial'_?" Rhona read out. Harriet grunted softly.

"Probably wants to try out my antidote early," she said darkly: Snape had mentioned in one of their last lessons that he would be testing their antidotes on them in a few weeks' time. "Only, he'll _forget_ to make me make it, and just end up poisoning me instead."

"Professor Snape wouldn't do that," Hermes sighed, scribbling away on an Arithmancy essay. "I'll be right back—I want to ask Cedric something…"

"_Cedric_? Why?" Rhona blurted, and Harriet glanced up, her heart doing that fluttering thing when she heard Cedric's name.

"Be_cause_, Rhona, Cedric has already taken his O.W.L. in Arithmancy and I wanted to ask him something about a particular equation," Hermes said tartly.

"Say hello to him for me," Harriet said groggily, leaning her head on her hand, letting her eyes slide shut.

"Oh, I _will_," said Hermes tauntingly, and Harriet didn't have the strength or clarity of mind so early in the morning to do anything but glower after Hermes as he went over to the Hufflepuff table.

Saturday was spent solely on homework; it was becoming a pattern. Not for the first time, definitely not for the last, Harriet wished she could have Quidditch practice. She _missed_ it. Before Hogwarts she would never have believed she could miss sports practice—she had never been the most active girl in the world (except from legging it away from the girls who stole what little change she had) but she _missed Quidditch_.

* * *

Saturday _evening_ drew close too quickly; after dinner, Harriet found herself walking as slowly as she could down the dungeon corridor to Snape's office. This was the first time she would come face to face with Snape, alone, since she'd heard what Slughorn had had to say last Sunday. _Maybe I can ask him…Maybe he'll tell me things about her, if I ask…if I work hard, whatever it is we're doing_.

She knocked politely on the door and waited for Snape to answer. The door opened slowly, but it was not Snape who greeted her; he remained by his desk, siphoning shining silvery strands of thought from his temple, and putting them into the stone basin—the Pensieve.

"Shut the door, Potter." She shut it. "Sit down." She sat soundlessly, putting her bag under her chair. "Professor Dumbledore has asked me to instruct you in the art of Occlumensy."

"What's that, sir?" Harriet asked.

"In the simplest of phrases, Occlumensy is the ability to seal one's mind from magical intrusion and influence." Harriet frowned. "Professor Dumbledore has mentioned Ligilimensy to you, I hear?"

"Taking memories and thoughts from someone's mind," Harriet nodded.

"Occlumensy is the reverse—it tempers the mind against Legilimensy," Snape said.

"So…why does Professor Dumbledore want me to learn Occlumensy?" Harriet asked slowly.

"Your collapse during our Potions lesson on Wednesday—what you were forced to see through the Dark Lord's connection to you—impressed on the Headmaster the strength of the connection between yourself and the Dark Lord," Snape said coolly. "The curse that should have killed you instead transferred some of the Dark Lord's powers to you and forged a connection between you through your scar. It is the Headmaster's wish that you learn to close your mind against such intrusions, before the Dark Lord realises the potential in having such a connection with you."

"But I saw Avery being killed through Nagini—through a snake," Harriet frowned. "How come I saw it through the snake's eyes if it's Voldemort's thoughts I'm sharing?"

"_Do not say the Dark Lord's name_?" Snape hissed.

"Why? Are you a_fraid_ of it?" she asked tartly, eyeing him baldly. He looked like he might like to slap her—a soft flush of colour rose in his sallow cheekbones.

"You appear to have been able to see through the eyes of the snake because that is where the Dark Lord _was_ at that particular moment," he snarled, ignoring her comment.

"You mean he was, like…_possessing_ the snake?" Harriet blurted, wrinkling her nose. Why anyone would _want_ to live in the body of a snake, she didn't know…but then Sirius lived as a dog.

"In a manner of speaking," Snape said tersely. "Shall we continue, or do you wish to keep interrupting?" Harriet bit her tongue. "As I have said, Professor Dumbledore is aware of the great danger it may pose if you were to continue to see the Dark Lord's thoughts—he may be able to access your mind, feel what you feel, know things you know…" He let that thought weigh on the air for a few seconds, seeing Harriet's mouth open slightly in horror. "These lessons, however untraditional, are to ensure this does not happen."

A little relieved, Harriet nodded.

"Stand up. Take out your wand," Snape dictated. Harriet did as she was told; she stood, moving the chair to the side and faced Snape across the desk; the Pensieve had been moved to a shelf.

"I will now break into your mind, Potter—it should hardly be very taxing," Snape smirked maliciously, and Harriet couldn't bear to take her eyes off his wand, in case he caught her off-guard: he'd said she could Disarm him, but...she didn't particularly feel like adding a month's detentions to her workload. "We shall see how well you attempt to resist—I have heard that you have shown quite an aptitude for throwing off the Imperius Curse…Impressive. Similar strength of mind is needed for Occlumensy to work to its greatest effect. You may use your wand either to Disarm me or to repel me in any other way you can think of. You had best brace yourself… _Legilimense_."

The office vanished. In its place, a film so vivid in colour and sensation flashed across her eyes that it had her reeling.

She was five, watching Daisy ride around on a brand-new pink bicycle with a basket with flowers on, her heart aching with jealousy…she was nine: it was midnight, and Ripper the bulldog was barking at the base of the tree, Uncle Vernon and 'Aunt' Marge were laughing heartlessly from the conservatory, swilling their brandy… Aunt Petunia was advancing on her with the kitchen scissors, the hair clippers plugged in above the toaster…The Sorting Hat told her she would do very well in Slytherin…Hermes lay frozen in the Hospital Wing, Petrified by the Basilisk…Norah was sprawled, pale and cold as marble, on the slick ground, all life leaving her…a hundred Dementors were closing around her…the Death Eaters were tormenting the Robertses twenty feet in the air…Sirius' face shone in the pale moonlight, sat in the arched diamond-paned window of the common-room.

_No! You're not allowed to see that!_ Harriet thought sharply. _You're not allowed!_

"Ouch!" she winced, hobbling, as her knee twinged with pain as if she'd just kicked something—Snape's office came into view, and she glanced around from what she realised was the floor. She sat up with a groan, massaging her twinging knee, and glanced at Snape; he had his wand lowered and he was glaring, massaging his wrist, where an angry red welt had appeared.

"Did you _mean_ to produce a Stinging Hex, Potter?" he asked coldly.

"Did I? …oh, no, sir," Harriet breathed, groaning as she clambered off the floor. "Do you see everything I do, when you do that?" Snape's mouth twitched.

"Incomplete thoughts…How long did it take for your hair to grow back?" he smirked.

"Overnight," Harriet cringed. She'd been locked in the cupboard for ages for that unexplainable piece of magic she hadn't known she'd done, too humiliated to even comprehend going to school the next day with a shaved head.

"Your first attempt was not as poor as I believed it would be," Snape mused. "But you lack _focus_. If you are to have any success with Occlumensy, Potter, you must _focus_. You must find it in yourself to have the _will_ to repel any enemy, physical or mental. You have been able to produce a Corporeal Patronus for quite some time now—use that same determination now." Harriet took a deep breath and let it out, gripping her wand. "Try with fewer distractions—close your eyes." Harriet eyed Snape's wand warily, but did as she was told; her hand, clutching her wand, trembled.

"Now, clear your mind, Potter. People who wear their hearts on their sleeves have very little chance at all of successfully repelling the magic of someone using Legilimensy on them," Snape snarled, his expression calculating as he swept his eyes over her. "You will focus on _repelling_ my attack. Let go of all emotion, allow your mind to wander…"

She imagined what it was like to be under the Imperius Curse—that same weightlessness, carelessness, how everything seemed to just… She jumped, images flashing through her mind; Fred and George were passing her letter to Cedric high over her head, laughing—she and Rhona were both paralysed with laughter in the common room over their Divination homework—Malfoy, taunting her about her mother, her stomach boiling with anger such as she had never felt before, flying at him to punish every inch of his cowardly body, his words ringing in her ears as she bellowed—

"Did I do it?" Harriet gasped, stumbling back into a low filing cabinet. Snape was glaring at her maliciously.

"No, you did not," he snarled. "When was this Muggle duel with Mr Malfoy, Potter?" Harriet glared back.

"The Quidditch World Cup," Harriet snarled finally, resentfully. He couldn't punish her for something she'd done out of term-time, though she knew he'd bloody well find an excuse to give her detention because she'd attacked his favourite student.

"We will try again—you were almost in the state you need to achieve in order for Occlumensy to work," Snape said. "Focus…"

It was kind of hard to focus when her brain felt like a swimming pool with the Jacuzzi jets on. She tried to focus, she tried her hardest not to think… "_Legilimense_."

She saw Cedric, smiling at her, just smiling—whether it was from a dream or a real memory she didn't know; she saw her parents smiling up from her photograph album; she saw her mother alight with happiness at her wedding. She frowned; _You knew my mother_. She forced herself to sift through her memories, to show him the one she wanted him to see—

"_Do you mean my mother was friends with Professor Snape?_" she asked: she was in Professor Dumbledore's study, staring at Horace Slughorn.

"_Of course! Quite the double-act, they were; always sat next to each other in my lessons_," Slughorn nodded, his voice echoing in her head. "_Never a more talented twosome have I ever met_."

She blinked, and stared at Snape: for the first time in the three years she had known him, or had lessons taught by him, Harriet had never seen his expression _troubled_. She realised he had never looked _vulnerable_ to her. However cold and cruel he had been towards her, he had never been _weak_.

"When did you hear this?"

"Last Sunday," Harriet said quietly.

"You said nothing of it to me?"

"What would it have achieved? You've always hated me, what could have possibly changed that?" Harriet asked tartly. Something flickered in Snape's eyes.

But he pressed on without comment.

* * *

…An hour later, feeling like her brain was dribbling out of her ears, Harriet drifted upstairs like a zombie, drained of all energy and wanting very much to sleep. She knew Snape wanted her to practice before going to bed, but…she was just so _tired_. Hermes and Rhona were waiting for her in the common room, which was mercifully less crowded than usual this time of night. She shook her head wearily, let her bag drop off her shoulder, and dropped like a stone onto the sofa between them, immediately lolling against Hermes.

"That draining, huh?" he asked quietly. Harriet managed a small grunt. It was warmer in here, the fire crackled nicely. "Did he give you homework?"

"Prac…" she trailed off, giving an enormous yawn and snuggling closer to Hermes.

"Hey, Rhona," she heard Hermes whisper vaguely. "Get her up to bed. She can't sleep down here."

* * *

But she did. She did sleep in the common room, because at dawn, when the autumn sun shone through the diamond-paned windows overlooking the grounds and the Forest, it shone right into her face. She was curled up, as she usually was when she slept, and someone had heaped so many blankets over her that she was sweating, her head propped on a big feather pillow, the fire burning brighter and hotter than it usually did in the morning.

She groaned, feeling horribly sluggish, even by her usual standards, and squirmed, slightly uncomfortable because she was so warm. She pawed at the blankets and sighed a gasp of relief as cool air brushed lovingly against her face and throat.

"Good morning, Miss," someone said in a squeaky, high voice. A squeaky, high voice Harriet knew instantly. She squinted around, wondering whether she had fallen asleep in her contact-lenses. She hadn't; Dobby's enormous green eyes were slightly blurry around the edges as she gazed at him. She blinked furiously, fighting to loosen the blankets; she glanced around and reached into her bag, which had been left at the foot of the sofa, and pulled her glasses out, scrunching her tired eyes as she slipped them on.

"_Dobby_?" she breathed.

"It _is_ Dobby, it _is_, miss!" Dobby beamed ecstatically.

"Dobby's been waiting for you to wake up for over two hours," someone else said, and Harriet glanced over the arm of the sofa, to one of the nearest round worktables, which was set for breakfast. Sirius, in his robes and shining hair, sat eating his way through a meal in his human form, reading the _Daily Prophet_ and pencilling in the answers to the _Nastily Difficult Crossword_. He was enjoying the hours before the castle woke as a human. On a Sunday morning, he had more hours than usual.

"Dobby has been hoping for days and _days_ to see Harriet Potter, miss," Dobby squeaked, his eyes brimming with tears of what was unmistakably joy. She focused on Dobby, where he stood on the hearth, grinning. He looked exactly as he had the last time Harriet had seen him—thin, pencil-shaped nose, bulbous green eyes the size of tennis-balls, bat-like ears, the long fingers and feet. But his _clothes_—when he had worked for the Malfoys, he had worn a grotty old pillowcase. _Now_, however, he wore a tea-cosy for a hat, decorated with several badges; a tie patterned with glistening gold horseshoes was tied around his neck over a bare chest, he wore a pair of what Harriet thought looked like a child's pair of football shorts, and odd socks. One of them was the plain black sock Harriet had freed him with. The other had bright orange and pink stripes that clashed magnificently.

"Um…what're you doing here, Dobby?" Harriet asked uneasily. Her past encounters with Dobby had all been about her imminent demise—he had tried to get her expelled from Hogwarts by blocking her way to Platform Nine and Three Quarters, set a Bludger on her to knock her out of action and have her sent back to the Dursleys, and warned her that "_history_ _is_ _to_ _repeat_ _itself_" when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened.

"Dobby has come to work at Hogwarts, miss," Dobby beamed, ecstatic. "Professor Dumbledore is giving Dobby and Winky jobs, miss."

"Winky's here too?" Harriet blurted, staring. _So Crouch _did_ give her clothes, after all_, she thought, hoping Hermes never found out.

"Indeed, miss," Dobby said quietly, his ears drooping sadly. "Winky was dismissed by her master, miss. So I is thinking—where is there enough work for _two _dismissed house-elves? And then it comes to me, miss—_Hogwarts_…Dobby has travelled the country for a whole year, miss, trying to find work. You see miss, it is very difficult for a house-elf who has been dismissed to find work, miss, _very_ difficult indeed. Dobby hasn't found work 'til now, miss, because Dobby is wanting paying now, miss."

"Really?" Harriet smiled, glancing at Sirius; his light eyes were twinkling over his teacup.

"Yes, miss," Dobby beamed. "Dobby likes his freedom, miss, but he likes work more, miss, but he wants to wear _clothes_ and be _paid_, miss. And then Dobby goes to see Winky, miss, and Dobby finds out Winky has been dismissed _too_. And then Dobby thinks of Hogwarts, and I comes to see Professor Dumbledore, miss, and Professor Dumbledore took us on! And Dobby is getting paid a galleon a week, and one day off a month."

"That's not very much," Harriet frowned thoughtfully.

"Oh, miss—" Dobby's eyes widened, and he shivered slightly. "Professor Dumbledore offered Dobby _ten_ galleons a week _and_ weekends off, miss, but Dobby beat him down, miss. Dobby likes his freedom, miss, but he is not wanting _too_ much, miss…Dobby likes work better."

"Well, good for you, Dobby," Harriet smiled. "I'm glad you're happy."

"All thanks to you, miss," Dobby beamed at her, his ears perking up again.

"And is Winky getting paid too?" Harriet asked. Dobby's ears drooped.

"Alas, miss, Winky is having trouble adjusting, Harriet Potter," Dobby sighed. "Winky forgets she is not bound to Mr Crouch any more—that she is allowed to speak her mind now, but she won't do it, and she won't accept paying, miss."

"Can't house-elves speak their minds of their masters, then?" Harriet asked.

"Oh, _no_, miss," Dobby gasped softly, as if in horror. "_No_, miss. A house-elf can only speak their minds once they is freed, miss. 'Tis part of the house-elves' enslavement, miss. We upholds the family honour, and keep our masters' secrets and our silence, miss. We _never_ speaks ill of them, miss—though Professor Dumbledore _did_ say that he does not insist upon this. Professor Dumbledore says we is free to…to…" A mischievous little smile played on Dobby's lips, and his cheeks flushed happily, "to call him a barmy old codger if we likes to, miss."

Sirius let out a deep, healthy laugh, almost upsetting his tea all over his robes. Dobby gave a frightened sort of giggle, beaming at Sirius.

"But Dobby is not wanting to call him that, miss, for Dobby _likes_ Professor Dumbledore," Dobby smiled happily. "Dobby is proud to keep his secrets for him."

"Aren't we all?" Harriet smiled darkly.

"Dobby brought up enough breakfast for the both of us, Harriet," Sirius said softly. "Come and eat. You didn't have much at dinner last night."

"Yeah, alright," Harriet groaned.

"Dobby, are you going to join us?" Sirius asked, and Dobby beamed inexplicably. He clambered onto a chair beside Harriet, his legs so short they stuck out on the seat of the chair, and chatted amicably as she and Sirius ate their way through creamy, spiced porridge, tea, and toast (with an assortment of jams). He told her about the two years he had been wandering around, trying to find paid work, and what he planned to do now with his sudden windfall of cash.

"Dobby is going to buy a jumper next, Harriet Potter!" he said happily, pointing to his bare chest.

"Tell you what," said a fourth voice, and Dobby and Harriet both jumped, but it was only Rhona, in her too-short pyjamas, her sheet of dark red hair tousled. She had been listening to their conversation from the arm of the sofa, a weird smile toying on her lips. Sirius smiled over the rim of his teacup. "You can have the one my mum knits me for Christmas," she said, taking a seat beside Sirius and helping herself to a slice of buttered toast. "You don't mind maroon, do you?" Dobby's ears perked up and he grinned. "We may have to shrink it a bit to fit you, but it'll go well with your tea-cosy."

When the breakfast spread was eaten up (aided by Rhona, and Dobby, who had a fondness for strawberry jam straight out of the jar on a spoon) Dobby had to return to the kitchens; he snapped his fingers and the cutlery and china all disappeared, and he made a sweeping bow, grinning from ear to ear.

"Harriet Potter…Can Dobby come and see you, sometimes, miss?" Dobby asked tentatively, poised on the hearth on the balls of his feet. Harriet beamed at him.

"'Course you can!" He beamed, and disappeared.

"So that's Dobby," Rhona said, staring at the place where Dobby had disappeared.

"That's Dobby," Harriet said happily, pawing at her eyes sleepily. Something large and ginger came streaking across the common room, and Crookshanks settled into a purring ball in Sirius' lap. Rhona slipped upstairs to drag Hermes down (as it was usually the other way round, him making a first or second year come up to their dormitory to drag them out of bed) and with another few hours until the rest of the students woke up, all four sat around the round worktable, discussing Occlumensy.

Even though his enmity for Snape had grown even more since their last encounter, when Snape had been set on watching the Dementors Kiss the soul out of Sirius, Sirius was the one who impressed on Harriet the very great need for her to put a lot of effort into her lessons with Snape.

"My next lesson is on Friday, after Potions," Harriet sighed. She didn't anticipate enjoying it.

But if Sirius asked her to do something—and he had never, not once, asked her to do anything for him—she would do it. So she focused on the homework Snape had set her—to clear her mind of emotion and thought before bedtime.

* * *

**A.N.**: YAY! DOBBY'S ALIVE!!!!

* * *


	36. Conjunctivitis

**A.N.**: I had to get Harriet and Cedric in the same room, and I was thinking about how I had conjunctivitis in March when it _snowed_, and I had to stay indoors all week!

* * *

**Conjunctivitis**

* * *

Unfortunately, the first week of October meant a bought of Conjunctivitis for Harriet, which had been making the rounds through the first-year class: being contagious, and Hogwarts being a school, Harriet was _confined_ within the white curtains of the hospital wing for a week, feeling miserable and in pain. Madam Pomfrey could just as easily have slipped her a potion and sent her on her way, but seeing as Harriet was already 'delicate' in Madam Pomfrey's eyes, she liked to keep Harriet under her jurisdiction for as long as reasonably possible.

Between meditating for Occlumensy lessons, and reading through _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ for any sign that Voldemort could have possibly made more than one Horcrux, and completing all the many, complicated assignments their teachers were giving her on a daily basis through Hermes, Harriet still found time to make a birthday-present for Cedric: she enjoyed it. She knew mid-October was Cedric's birthday. His _seventeenth_ birthday, on the eighteenth of October, would make him eligible to put his name in for the Triwizard Tournament, and Harriet knew from the rumour-mill that Cedric was considering entering.

While she wasn't exactly hanging out with him at lunchtime or sprawling over the lawn in the courtyard during break or free lessons (which only N.E.W.T. students had, regretfully) Harriet liked Cedric: She liked seeing him smiling in the hallways—he _always_ had a smile for her, too. He said hello to her whenever she was close enough, and she always felt really good when he did that.

So, while she was sequestered in her hospital bed, she worked on the present she had thought up for Cedric: she had ordered a photograph-album from _Flourish and Blotts_, a handsome black leather one with a badger embossed on the front cover, and she'd had Cedric's initials—_C.D.D._—embossed on it too. And inside, she had filled the album with coloured card from the stationers, fun prints and quirky patterns, kind of like the kind of side of Cedric she had seen over the summer, with the photographs she had printed last week in the lab that Cedric had particularly liked.

She remembered everything Cedric had said about the photographs she had taken over the summer, and had written his comments down in her neat, pretty calligraphy, decorating the pages with small drawings. She had wrapped it and it was waiting in her schoolbag for the day she was released.

* * *

She was lying in a daze, staring up at the ceiling through tired, pained eyes and feeling completely miserable, the strong sunlight, strange for October, splashed across her sheets, highlighting the dust floating in the air, and the fluffiness of her odd socks—one was a striking acid-green with emerald-green snakes slithering around her toes, the other was fawn with great winged palomino horses flying around her ankle. Padfoot slept curled up at the foot of the bed by her feet, as usual, sleeping in a big patch of hot sunlight.

"Harriet, you have a visitor," Madam Pomfrey said happily, and Harriet wrinkled her nose and pouted, hauling herself up into a sitting position. She ran her hands through her hair and righted her pyjama top, and thanked the good gods above that she was wearing her own pyjamas, not the unflattering hospital-issue ones when non other than Cedric came through the divide in the curtains.

"Hi!"

"Hey," Cedric smiled, tugging the chair beside her bed a little closer, and sat down. "So she's got you locked up in here, huh?"

"Madam Pomfrey prefers to have me in here with Conjunctivitis than wait for me to crack my head open," Harriet sighed. "Again."

"I see," Cedric grinned coyly.

"How'd you know I was here?" Harriet asked, glancing over him; he was in his uniform, so he was either on a free-period or it was lunchtime. She hadn't been paying attention to the bells, muted as they were in the hospital-wing for the peace of the patients.

"Hermes," Cedric smiled. "He mentioned it."

"You've been talking to him a lot, haven't you," Harriet guessed. Cedric laughed softly.

"Yeah," he smirked at her. Harriet narrowed her already pained eyes.

"Something tells me I should be wary about _what_ you two talk about," she said, and Cedric smiled coyly, glancing at her through his lashes.

"Oh—I have this for you," Cedric said, tugging something out of his bag; it was a neat powder-blue envelope, with her name scrawled across the front. Harriet took the card and smiled to herself, opening it: backed onto a powder-blue card was a sort of rectangle of frayed, bluebell-patterned fabric, with one large blue heart sewn around the edge with white stitches, with white lettering spelling out '_Get Well Soon_', and as Harriet pulled the card out of the envelope, three beautiful iridescent, velvety greeny-blue butterflies opened their wings and fluttered them: there was a sprig of forget-me-nots by the ribbon that tied the card closed.

"This is _lovely_," Harriet smiled at him. Even with her tired, gross eyes, she could see it was very pretty. She untied the ribbon and smiled when the sound of birds singing in the morning with a gentle breeze rustling the leaves of trees in the background quietly filled the air around her.

"I thought you hadn't been outside in a while, so…" Cedric smiled, and Harriet beamed at him.

"Did you make this?" she asked, amazed; the message inside read, '_Please Get Well Soon, I miss seeing you around school. I miss your smile, love Cedric_.' She placed the card on her bedside cabinet with the others she had received—one from Dean Thomas, a fascinating rendition of Harriet-Smoad with conjunctivitis with weepy eyes, alternately putting drops in them or dabbing at them with a handkerchief, her lower-lip wobbling, another from the Creevey brothers.

"Um…my mother did," Cedric admitted, smiling. Harriet glanced up. "She likes making pretty things—cards, photograph frames, jewellery."

"I thought she worked at the Ministry," Harriet frowned.

"She does, part-time," Cedric shrugged. "She does this kind of stuff as a hobby, sells it at _Madam_ _Primpernelle's_."

"How is she? Is she still working overtime at the Ministry?" Harriet asked. Mrs Diggory usually stopped by every evening after work, even when Cedric was staying with the Weasleys; she would pop in to say hello, and Mrs Weasley had never been annoyed if it was quite late. Harriet liked her a lot; she had been very quiet, affectionate, and quietly mischievous like Cedric.

"No, things have calmed down where she is," Cedric smiled, as if he was relieved. "Dad's still up to his ears in bother, though."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Harriet said politely. Cedric shrugged.

"Keeps him occupied," he said softly, smiling.

"I have something for you," Harriet said, leaning over the bed to her bag on the floor. Cedric stooped and lifted it for her, and Harriet lifted out the present she had wrapped in brown paper and ribbon.

"What's this?"

"It's for your birthday. You don't have to open it now…but I don't know when I'll get out of here, so I want you to have it," Harriet said, passing him the present. A tiny smile played on his lips and he undid the neat Spellotape Harriet had secured the paper with, tugging out the handsome leather book.

He flicked through it, slowly examining the photographs and the comments and the drawings Harriet had added. "This is wonderful," he smiled, pausing for a longer time over _Harriet's_ favourite photograph—the one of just her and Cedric in the back-garden of the Burrow with their fairy-cakes and Butterbeer—and shot her a grin. "You made this?"

"Yeah."

* * *

They talked for a little while about the summer, and what had been happening around school—"Warrington, in Slytherin, likes all things _frilly_," Cedric whispered. Harriet gaped incredulously, and laughed—but when the bell rang, Cedric had to get to Transfiguration, and Harriet should have been making her way to Snape's office after dinner, however, being quarantined, Harriet was forced to remain in her little area for the duration of the weekend—which didn't mean she didn't have homework:

"There you go," Rhona groaned, dumping half the library's worth of books on her bed. "That's all I could carry. Snape's set another essay. I think he's feeling vindictive because you weren't there to punish this week."

"It's not _my_ fault—Madam Pomfrey won't let me _leave_," Harriet huffed. Her eyes were fine, now, she'd finished using the preventative and healing drops and she'd spent every hour of the past six days lying in bed, doing _work_. Nobody could say she'd been dossing around.

"Hey, who's this one from?" Rhona asked, picking up the butterfly card. Harriet made to grab it but Rhona, smirking deliciously, was faster.

"_Oooh_, _Ced_ric," she taunted, dancing out of reach with the card—"'_I miss seeing you around school. I miss your smile, love Cedric_'—'_love'_. Oooh!"

"What are you going on about?" Hermes asked, delivering a note from Professor Snape.

"Harriet's got herself a laddie-love," Rhona smirked, showing Hermes the card.

"Oh, Cedric—yeah, I told him you were here," Hermes nodded, without even reading the greeting. "I just saw him—you gave him his present, didn't you."

Harriet nodded, accepting the note from Snape:

* * *

_Miss Potter,_

_You will report to my office at seven a.m. on Monday evening to continue your tuition. No exceptions,_

_Professor Snape_.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review!

* * *


	37. Halloween, 1996

**A.N.**: The favourite chapter I've written—I reread the bit from Voldemort's perspective on killing the Potters, and got _inspired_! Quite morbid, but sweet too, I hope!

* * *

**Halloween, 1996**

* * *

She had worked very hard over the last week, while in the hospital wing, to prepare for her Occlumensy lesson, which should have been on Friday, on Monday. Every night she had meditated before sleep, and when double-Divination ended on Monday afternoon, she didn't dread her lesson after dinner. Probably because it had been sausage and mash for dinner, one of her favourite meals, she was in a very good mood as she made her way back down the dungeon corridor to Snape's office. Harriet closed the study door behind her, set her bag on the chair by the door and took out her wand.

"So, we begin where we left off last lesson," he said curtly, taking out his own wand. The Pensieve glowed on the shelf behind him. "Again, you may use your wand to disarm or repel me in any way you can think of. And I shall know if you have not been practicing."

"I have been practicing!" Harriet said indignantly, frowning. Snape gave her a doubtful look.

"We shall see, then," Snape said curtly. "Prepare yourself. _Ligilimense_."

…Dumbledore was pointing out the tiny crystal orb, inside which something silvery, solid and liquid and gas at the same time swirled around beautifully like a glittering galaxy, on a high shelf just within her reach—_He wants Harriet? But…but _why_, Dumbledore, why? She's…she's our little girl!_

The voice hit her with the weight of an earth-shattering wrecking ball and Harriet stared at Snape across the classroom, suddenly as clear to her as her father's voice.

She'd never heard her father's voice with that much clarity before. She had never heard more than a phrase—"_Take Harriet and go! Run!_" and that was only when the Dementors came far too close…

"What happened there?" Snape asked quietly. Harriet jumped slightly and glanced at the professor.

"What? Oh…" She blinked, feeling her shoulders sagging. "I…I'd only heard his voice once before…"

"We will try again," Snape said curtly. "_Focus_."

All the practice she had put into it—because Sirius had asked her to—had been wasted. She had heard her father's voice for the first time _not_ attached to her mother's dying screams.

She was too focused on her father when she was hit with _Ligilimense_. She was so focused on her father that it seemed that every memory that slipped past, slower now, clearer, full of emotion and the senses, contained him, because they were the memories she wanted to see in such exquisite detail. Snape was making her see the memories but she chose their subject content…

She was reaching up her hand, hoping against all laws of physics that if she could just touch the surface of the mirror, she would be able to step through it to her parents on the other side… She was angry, upset and distraught, and numb, flicking her way recklessly through the photograph album Hagrid had made her, to the photograph of her parents' wedding…

"_Go on, Harriet, put your face in it_!" her father coaxed, and, restrained in her high-chair, Harriet gurgled a happy laugh and launched headfirst into a gooey, sticky, yummy chocolate cake iced with _Happy First Birthday Harriet_…

She sat on the floor, smiling, very warm, and very happy, gazing in quiet awe as sparkling smoke rings in different, lovely colours, streamed from the tip of her father's wand with tiny, glowing golden bubbles that she tried to grab, giggling softly.

"_Pretty, aren't they_?" her father chuckled softly, playing with her little foot; she wore a little pink bodysuit with footsies, the one that was very fluffy and warm, and she crawled onto her feet, using her father's denim-clad knee for support; he grinned at her, taking her sides in his large, warm hands, leaning down to kiss her cheeks and blow raspberries, which make her giggle loudly and beam up at her daddy, pressing a hand to his cheek and leaning up to give him a very wet kiss. He grinned, his eyes—eyes that had gold flakes in them, gold like the pretty bubbles he made especially for her baths. She liked her baths—twinkling behind his glasses. She reached for them, and he chuckled softly, taking them off, and she fell down on her bottom with a muffled _phush_ on the soft rug when she put them on upside-down. She laughed softly, lolling back, and she heard her daddy's laugh as she giggled softly, and she blinked when he took his glasses back and lifted her onto his chest, her little hands captured in his big ones, kissing her again.

Lying on his back, he lifted her into the air, letting her soar over him, making her giggle as she writhed, loving the weightlessness. "_I give to you…the English National Team's youngest member—POTTER!!_" He pretended to cheer and grinned up at her, zooming her around with sound-effects like the _whoosh_ of a broomstick.

"_Alright, you two—that's enough of that_," said a kind, smiling voice, and Harriet beamed and cooed, glancing over at the little door, where her mother's fiery hair glowed in the lamplight. "_It's time for beddy-byes, poppet._"

"_It's nice to know someone in this house still gets a good night's sleep!_" her daddy chuckled darkly. "_You were up all night again, weren't you?_"

"_I'm alright_," Lily said softly, smiling, and Harriet held her hand out for her mother, smiling, clamped against her father's waist, fitting snug and warm there, her other hand clenched around his t-shirt.

"_Alright, go and take care of Mummy_," her daddy whispered to her. "_I love you, blossom_." He kissed her cheeks and forehead, and she only saw his t-shirt when he leaned in to kiss her mummy. "_I love you, too_," she heard him murmur, and heard her mother's tiny little chuckle and sigh.

She was transferred into her mother's arms, pouting and gazing longingly over her mother's shoulder as she carried her from the sitting-room, away from her daddy, who was running his hands through her hair, looking tired. She clutched locks of her mother's fiery, fragrant hair in her hands and rested her cheek against her mother's neck, watching her daddy as her mother climbed the stairs. She beamed as he came running into the hallway, but she noticed that the door was open. The door was never open.

"_Lily, take Harriet and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off--!_" There were pretty green lights, but her mother was running up the stairs, screaming, making noises Harriet used to make, slamming the door of her little bedroom, where her pretty fairy lights twinkled everywhere. Clamped in her mother's arms, her mother started pushing things in front of the door. She was making a den like Puppy did; they were playing a game. Harriet smiled, clutching her mother's sweater, waiting for Daddy to pop in front of them and go '_Boo_!' the way he liked to, to make her gurgle loudly with laughter that filled the whole cottage. She beamed when the rocking-chair and the pretty boxes that had her dolls in them burst away from the door, and someone in a long cloak like the ones Dubble-door wore came into the room.

Her mother dipped and left Harriet in her cot; she put her fingers in her mouth and took hold of the corner of her blanket, knowing what that meant. It was time for beddy-byes. She smiled blithely at the person, waiting for Dubble-door to play hide-and-seek with her, gazing past her mother's slender hips.

"_Not Harriet—please, not our Harriet_."

The voice wasn't Dubble-door's. Harriet didn't like it.

"_Stand aside, you silly girl…stand aside_, now—"

"_Not my Harriet, please, no, take me, kill me instead—_"

"_This is my last warning—_"

"_Not Harriet! Please…have mercy…have mercy…not Harriet! Not Harriet! I'll do anything…_"

"_Stand aside—stand aside, girl—_"

Harriet hooked her little fingers around a bar of her cot, and her eyelashes fluttered as a flash of brilliant green light filled the room. This person had made the pretty lights downstairs. Her mother dropped to the floor and stayed there.

She gazed expectantly at Dubble-door, waiting for him to reveal his face and smile at her, his eyes twinkling like stars, and tickle her with his beard.

Her eyes crossed when he pointed his wand between them. She glanced up, swaying slightly, and then she saw…it wasn't Dubble-door.

She didn't like his face.

Her eyes burned, her face twisted, and she let out a small moan, a whimper of longing. Where was her daddy? Why wasn't her mummy getting up? Did she need help, like Harriet sometimes did? She let out a little whimper, tears starting to stream down her face, and sucked hard on her fingers, her hand wrapped around the bar of her cot.

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

There was another flash of dazzling green light, so bright Harriet fell, so bright it hurt her—hurt her so badly she screamed for her mother, for her father, screamed continuously, screamed to make the hurting stop.

She screamed without knowing where she was; she screamed without feeling the tears that were blurring her vision stream down her face, blinding her, she screamed not knowing she sat bolt upright, terrifying the grown men staring stricken at her. She screamed until her throat was hoarse…

She collapsed against the stone, and knew no more.

* * *

When she awoke she didn't know how much later, she still felt the same sickly weakness, the sluggishness and the clamminess that felt like she had the flu but not the fever. She was still lying on the floor, cold and aching, her throat was hoarse and her mouth was full of an unpleasant taste. Her head ached. Slowly, she dragged herself up into a sitting position against the wall, curling up.

What she had seen resurfaced; she saw it all for a second time in echoing detail: she saw her parents fall, and she leaned over, drained and clammy and drenched with cold sweat, the worst she had ever felt, worse even than a hundred Dementors, an unnameable pain, and vomited over the stone floor.

Shivering violently and panting, her stomach riling, she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her robes and tears streamed freely down her face as she heaved sobs; she pointed her wand, her hand trembling, and panted, "_S-s-Scourgify_." The vomit disappeared just as a knock on the door sounded and two blurry figures entered the room, one in royal-purple, the other in black trimmed with yellow, accompanied by something enormous, black and furry.

Someone gasped and there were suddenly three sets of footsteps in the room coming from the door: Harriet curled up and cried, reliving her parents' deaths again, her heart breaking every time she remembered her father's smile and her mother's little laugh.

While she cried, she only heard indistinct voices—one fierce and heartbroken, the other quite calm, a third by the door extremely anxious, though there was no quaver of fear in his voice, but not a fourth voice: Snape remained silent, his expression ferociously anguished, white-faced tinged with green, sat in his chair behind the desk, his eyes dark and hollow, haunted, staring at Harriet.

"What has happened here?" Dumbledore asked swiftly: someone knelt down beside Harriet and she jumped and cried when they laid their hands gently on her shoulders.

"Hi, little girl, it's me," Sirius whispered to her, and Harriet cried and groped for his hand, realising she was trembling violently still. Sirius pulled her gently and Harriet navigated into his arms, clinging onto his robes for dear life. She cried until she had cried herself out, used up all her tears. Glad she had worn her glasses, she took them off and wiped her sopping eyes on a wad of her robes.

When she had stopped crying, she was calm enough to face the two other men in the room still standing—Professor Dumbledore, the twinkle in his eyes gone, replaced with a burning glow of concern, and Cedric, who stared from Sirius—as if he half-recognised the face that became more handsome with each passing day, Cedric's face white, his cheeks hollow—to Harriet, his eyes wide.

Professor Dumbledore had moved the Pensieve to Snape's desk—Snape was feeding his memories back into his head, leaving the subtly silvery light within the basin to grow dimmer and darker until there was none at all.

"Harriet, would you permit us to borrow your memory," he asked gently, "so that we may examine what caused the mental lockdown?"

"The…what?" She sniffed and sat up straighter, embarrassed that Cedric had seen her crying so unrestrainedly, catching Sirius' eye, fearful for what Cedric might do or say about having seen Sirius Black embracing Harriet Potter like a daughter. She glanced at Professor Dumbledore, at the concern and wariness etched into every line on his ancient face, and nodded groggily, her head feeling very heavy. "Yeah…yes."

She sat up straighter again, picking up her wand where she'd let it clatter on the floor after reaching for her godfather, and pressed it to her temple, focusing on the glittering multi-coloured smoke-rings in the little cottage's parlour. Even as she thought about it, and took her wand slowly from her temple, she felt the memory slipping away from her; she opened her eyes and watched a strand of silvery thought drift in a breeze that did not exist from the tip of her wand, and reached her arm out to deposit the memory into the empty Pensieve.

"I want it back, after," she said quietly, as the three men turned to the Pensieve—Cedric's expression was wary. Dumbledore nodded slowly, consolingly, and Harriet caught Cedric's eye and tweaked the corner of her mouth in affirmation that it was okay for him to see the memory. Sirius was first to dive in, Cedric followed next after Dumbledore gestured for him to do so, and finally Dumbledore disappeared into Harriet's memory. She felt calmer now, now that she could only vaguely remember the memory of her parents' murders; the full memory was in the Pensieve. She glanced at Snape, who sat at his desk, unspeaking, unable to look up from his hands.

* * *

Barely minutes passed, and Sirius staggered to her, weak-kneed and his face shining with tears, taking her in his arms again. She could hear his quiet sobs as he hugged her, and closed her eyes, relishing the feel of being hugged as if by a parent. Sirius was _good_ at those kinds of hugs. Cedric stumbled over to the nearest half-sized filing cabinet and sank onto it, staring with an expression so heart-rending Professor Dumbledore was moved to put a hand on his shoulder. Dumbledore looked _solemn_ for the first time, solemn, the twinkle gone from his forget-me-not eyes, which now seemed a lot darker, stormy.

She didn't care why she had been locked in the memory with Snape. She didn't care why she had acted like the year-old baby she had been when the memory had been made, she didn't care to know why. She just cared that it had happened…she cared that she had seen her parents together, smiling and happy and affectionate, for the first time in her memory, happy, together, alive…if only for a few seconds, before Voldemort came to snuff their lives out like guttering candles.

As soon as Sirius had released her, he dove for Snape: he hoisted him out of his chair behind his desk by the collar of his robes and lifted him clear off his feet to crash him into the shelves behind the desk, sending several apothecary jars smashing on the floor.

"_YOU_ _MADE HER WATCH THAT_!!" he roared: Snape didn't even _fight_ back as they rolled about on the floor, Sirius trying to punch every part of him he could reach. Only Dumbledore managed to part them; they were both thrown to opposing sides of the room, and Cedric had to leap in between them to stop Sirius having another go: Snape's eyes were blossoming purplish-black, his nose was broken, blood spilling over his mouth, smeared over his cheek which shone fuchsia with the beginnings of a bruise.

Harriet was on her feet, still feeling as if she'd been suffering from stomach flu, but she tugged on the back of Sirius' robes and he glanced over his shoulder at her; his expression relaxed into utmost tenderness and he offered his arm to hold her close to him.

"Sirius, why'd you…?" Harriet moaned softly, peering pleadingly up at her godfather. "You weren't supposed to…might get caught," she mumbled, her eyes filling with hot tears, glancing from Cedric to Snape and back to her godfather.

"I think a good mug of hot cocoa would work wonders here," Professor Dumbledore said softly, and from thin air he drew up—literally, with his wand—several small, squashy armchairs. A silver service appeared on Snape's desk, and as Harriet watched, melted chocolate mixed before her eyes from Professor Dumbledore's wand with hot milk in five large mugs and they each levitated towards one of the five in the room. Sirius sat down and pulled Harriet gently into his lap, holding her gently, his cheek resting against the side of her head. They all took long draughts of hot-chocolate, and it was like Remus was a tangible presence in the room because Harriet was instantly reminded of him, when the sense of great ease swept over her after the first mouthful of hot-chocolate, a wonderful calm that came from detachment; she had the memory back but it was filtering back into all her others.

"From what I saw, Harriet, it appears to me that you allowed yourself to lose control," Dumbledore said quietly. He was not reprimanding, just explaining. "Unintentionally, I am sure, but you allowed Professor Snape to delve too deeply into your memories, and, for a few seconds at least, you were both stuck inside your mind, inside that one, specific memory."

Harriet nodded, not really caring for an explanation.

"…it was an accident," Snape spoke up softly, his voice tremulous, thick with emotion as Harriet had never heard it. "…Didn't mean to…"

They sat in silence for many minutes: Dumbledore was first to finish his hot-chocolate, drinking speculatively, and stood up with a sigh; "I am afraid I must return to my study; there are matters I need to settle…Mr Diggory?"

"Yes sir?"

"I would like to ask you not to repeat what you have witnessed here this evening, not to anyone," Dumbledore said gently. Cedric glanced at Harriet; "Oh, I am sure if Miss Potter feels up to it, you may ask her about what you have seen, but, please, nobody besides her."

"Yes sir," Cedric nodded, and as Dumbledore swept past them to the door, Cedric sipped his hot-chocolate. Snape pulled himself out of his chair and followed Dumbledore, as if following some unvoiced instruction from the headmaster, not minding in the least that three people were still sat in his study amidst his precious Potions ingredients. There was silence again, as Cedric stared at Harriet and Sirius, and Harriet stared at Cedric, and Sirius stared at the Pensieve broodingly.

Finally, Cedric set his empty mug on the silver tray still lingering on Snape's desk. He caught Harriet's eye and sighed heavily. "You're a lot more normal than you should be," he whispered wondrously, gazing at her.

Harriet almost choked on her hot-chocolate. She hadn't expected him to say that, and she hadn't expected to be able to smile so soon after regaining access to that earth-shattering memory. But she emerged from her cocoa-mug grinning, her chin sopping, and she heard Sirius choke on his drink and bark a laugh that was losing its hollowness. Cedric got up slowly, hooking the strap of his bag over his shoulder, and glanced from Harriet to Sirius.

"I…I should probably get back to my common-room," he said, glancing at Sirius again. Harriet could see the questions in his pale-grey eyes, but he was either too polite or still too stunned to voice them. Yet.

She and Sirius were left alone, and it was then that Sirius sighed heavily and glanced at her, his chin resting on her shoulder.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he said gently. Harriet just breathed, staring into space. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and sighed.

"He wanted me to be on the English National Quidditch team," Harriet said softly. Her father called her "_blossom_" and her mother called her "_poppet_" and her bedroom had been a lovely rusty pink with cabbage-roses in white plaster making their way up to the little green art-glass chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, inside which glittered fairies; her mother and father had put little sconces on the walls, also illuminated by fairies, that had filled the nursery with warm amber light even during the scary midnight hours. There had been embroidered cushions on the sofa in the parlour and her pram had been an old-fashioned one, and she knew now where she had recognised _Poesie_, her perfume, from: Her mother had worn it. The scent had billowed in her hair as she had carried Harriet upstairs, up the little staircase lined with photographs, with remnants of the house being lived in on the steps, a blanket, a doll, a basket of yarn, a small pile of washing needing doing just outside the wicker washing-basket at the top of the staircase between the two bedroom doors.

"Your daddy?" Sirius said gently. "Oh, yeah, absolutely. You got your first broom when you were a year old, you know."

"Did I?" Harriet asked, smiling sadly.

"Mm-hmm," Sirius smiled softly. "I bought it for you."

"How'd you know something was wrong down here?" Harriet asked, glancing at her godfather. How had he known she was in trouble? Sirius gave her a long, searching look.

"I heard your scream even before you'd made a sound," he whispered, biting his lip petulantly.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review and tell me what you think about the memory!

* * *


	38. Another Lesson

**A.N.**: Alright, I've uploaded a few new chapters—pray to _all_ the higher powers that they _work_!!! Drop me a PM if they don't!

* * *

**Another Lesson**

* * *

Sirius accompanied Harriet upstairs, in dog form. She told Rhona and Hermes she was too tired from her lesson to talk, and slipped upstairs, put her fluffiest, warmest pair of pyjamas on and snuggled deep under her duvet, her hangings drawn around her bed. In the darkness, Harriet scrunched up her face and tried to make sure Sirius didn't hear her crying as she relived her memory again.

It didn't work; Sirius transformed into a man, slipped under the duvet and held her close to him; she snuggled deep into his arms and just let him rub her back comfortingly as she sobbed quietly. She had no memory of ever being held and comforted like this, before today. She fell asleep being hugged by Sirius, and on Tuesday morning it took only a few short seconds to remember why she felt so abnormally tired and miserable so early in the morning. Sirius the dog stayed with her all day, tailing her around, probably worried she would start crying again.

During Tuesday lunchtime, Harriet received a note from Professor Dumbledore via the twins, who had been called up to the headmaster's office by Professor McGonagall for some reason of mischievousness:

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_I wish you to meet me in my study this evening after dinner at six o'clock: We have some matters to discuss, and I really think it pressing we continue with your education,_

_Yours ever,_

_Albus Dumbledore_

_P.S.: Levitating Sherbet balls are tremendous fun._

* * *

So, at six o'clock, Harriet spoke the password to the gargoyle and made her way upstairs with Sirius, who remained a dog, and was admitted into Dumbledore's study. Padfoot curled up at the foot of Harriet's chosen armchair in front of Dumbledore's desk—the one she _always_ sat in—and Harriet noticed that Dumbledore sat a little taller than usual in his throne-like gold chair: the silver sweet dish on his desk showed he had been snacking on Levitating Sherbet balls.

"No, thank you," Harriet said politely, when he offered her the bowl. She sat down and waited expectantly.

"How are you, Harriet?" Dumbledore asked gently. Harriet glanced at him, and shrugged.

"Alright, I s'pose," she said quietly. His eyes twinkled as they examined her face intently. He sighed, and, seeing he wouldn't get much more out of her regarding her memory, he adjusted his beard and placed his hands neatly on the leather upholstery of his magnificent mahogany desk.

"I think we should take the time during this lesson to reflect on what we know," Dumbledore said. Harriet nodded. "Now, we know that, by the time Tom Riddle was sixteen years old, he had already discovered his mother's ancient ancestry and opened the Chamber of Secrets, thus committing his first murder, the murder of the young girl Myrtle, through the Basilisk you slew two years ago.

"A few months later, during the summer after his sixth year, Tom Riddle set off to find what was left of his Wizarding family. Whilst finding that Marvolo Gaunt had since passed away, he learned of the abandonment of his father, and that his Muggle relatives still lived on in their manor-house across the valley from the Gaunt cottage.

"The young Tom Riddle then proceeded to bewitch his uncle, cross the valley to the Riddle house, murder his father and grandparents, and implanted in his uncle a false memory that would make it appear, to any interrogator that he had committed the murders, which led to Morfin Gaunt's arrest—and at which point Morfin noticed that his father's beloved ring had gone missing."

_And he made Horcruxes_, Harriet thought. _At least one_.

Dumbledore didn't speak for some time, just observed her. "Is there something you wish to discuss with me, Harriet?" Harriet weighed her options; whilst no part of Hogsmeade was strictly forbidden, she doubted very highly whether Dumbledore would approve of Harriet going to a Dark Magic shop on the tip-off of a reformed Death Eater. She glanced at Sirius, who nodded.

"Actually…do you remember the first Hogsmeade weekend?" Harriet asked slowly. Dumbledore nodded. "Well…it was just after our first lesson, wasn't it, and while I was telling Sirius about it, he remembered something…" Harriet reached into her bag for the journal she scribbled in on a daily basis, and opened it to the page marked as that Hogsmeade weekend by the letter from Regulus that Sirius had let her keep. She unfolded the letter, the letter which bore the seal of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, and passed it to Dumbledore.

He read it in a few short seconds and folded it, passing it back to her. He glanced at Sirius, then at Harriet.

"In Hogsmeade, I went to the shop, and I took the books that Regulus had left there for me," Harriet said quietly.

"Books? What books?" Dumbledore frowned.

"Books from my father's library, Dumbledore," Sirius sighed heavily, and Harriet jumped; she hadn't noticed he'd morphed back into a man. "Books on _Horcruxes_, Dumbledore."

"There's a copy of _Secrets of the Darkest Art_, _An Intense Study on the Peculiarities of Basilisk Venom_, a book on Inferi, and a book called _Gást Cléofan_," Harriet said, counting them off on her fingers. "I don't speak or read Old English—Hermes says that's what the last one's written in. But I've read all the others."

Dumbledore glanced sharply at Sirius, his expression startled and wondrous. "Regulus?"

"My younger brother, sir, he was in Slytherin, four years below me," Sirius sighed heavily. "He joined the Death Eaters when he was sixteen, I've found out." Dumbledore stood up abruptly and started pacing.

"He disappeared, if I'm not mistaken," Dumbledore shot at Sirius.

"Earlier the same year I was arrested," Sirius nodded solemnly.

"Yes…yes, I remember. He never returned after the Easter holidays of his seventh year…but then, he wasn't the only one," Dumbledore said quietly. "You have looked into his whereabouts?" Harriet thought Dumbledore sounded a little too surprised.

"_Yes_," Sirius said sullenly, and Harriet thought he too had heard the scepticism in Dumbledore's voice. "He got in too deep and became disillusioned…you know Voldemort too well to know he ever gives anyone a reprieve from duty." Harriet glanced from Sirius to Dumbledore.

"We're right aren't we—Regulus was right," Harriet blurted. "He made Horcruxes, didn't he?" Dumbledore sat down, staring at Harriet.

"You say Horcruxes in the plural, Harriet, why?" he asked, and there was something in his smile, again, like he was pleased with her.

"Well…One was Riddle's diary—it died when I stabbed it with the Basilisk fang," Harriet said. "And Riddle made the diary a Horcrux when he used the Basilisk to kill Moaning Myrtle. And I asked _you_ whether Marvolo Gaunt's ring was like the diary." She thought quickly and added, "But I can't imagine Regulus knew about either of those."

"And why not?"

"I just don't," Harriet frowned. She couldn't explain how Regulus couldn't have known about the ring or the diary—and Dumbledore hadn't denied they _were_ Horcruxes—except that she believed he would have tried to destroy it if he had found either of them. Harriet herself had destroyed the diary, and unless Dumbledore had…

"Professor?" She glanced at what she had named the Prophecy Table, on which her prophecy, Riddle's mangled diary and Marvolo's cracked ring rested, and bit her lip.

"Yes, Harriet?"

"The ring? Had it already been cracked like that when you got it?" she asked.

"No. I broke that ring when I found it buried beneath the remnants of the Gaunt hovel this summer," Dumbledore said. "It is my guess that Voldemort never thought that anybody would dare delve into his past, nor be on the look out for remnants of concealed magic, therefore he felt assured of its safety in the ruin of his ancestral home."

Harriet pieced this together.

"So you think, too, that Voldemort made other Horcruxes?" Sirius said, appalled.

"Certainly…I must say, though, I am very pleased," Dumbledore said calmly, glancing at Harriet.

"_Pleased_? About _what_?" Harriet gaped.

"That you have proved once again your knack for deduction and a remarkable understanding," Dumbledore smiled. "While I cannot condone visits to establishments such as the like of _Bode and Barbars'_, I must applaud your intuition. No, I am very happy that you remembered that letter, Sirius, but I must confess, Harriet, I never very much thought of you as a reader. You left _all _of the books Regulus left for you? That will be extremely beneficial; I will not have to stop and explain. So, you deduced that Voldemort survived the night his curse backfired because he had safeguarded his soul against complete and utter ruin. And you guessed, correctly, that Tom Riddle's diary held not a memory but a Horcrux, part of Voldemort's soul, and that you destroyed it by one of the few means available—Basilisk venom. And you are quite right in thinking that Marvolo Gaunt's ring was once a Horcrux."

"…How come Voldemort doesn't know they're destroyed?" Sirius asked, standing over by the Prophecy Table, flicking slowly through the inky, bloody pages of the diary.

"Weak as Voldemort must be, and detached from his own body and his whole soul, it is my belief the connection between Horcruxes and Voldemort must be very weak," Dumbledore said thoughtfully.

"Connection?"

"While fragmented, Voldemort's soul, the pieces of it, share a magical bond simply because they are his, and were once whole. This connection is stronger the more recent the separation—the diary, what I believe to be Voldemort's very first Horcrux, and Marvolo's ring, quite possibly his second, are the oldest. It is possible that Voldemort does not—or rather, did not—feel their destruction. I doubt very highly that Lord Voldemort would be very pleased with Lucius Malfoy for giving away his old school things—or would let him get away with it."

"Malfoy probably didn't know what it was," Harriet said thoughtfully. "He only knew that it would open the Chamber of Secrets, but he didn't know how."

"My thoughts exactly. While many Death Eaters would claim to be his closest follower, the only one in his strictest confidence, the truth of the matter is the Lord Voldemort has not nor has he ever had a friend, nor someone in whom he trusts. Those boys in Professor Slughorn's memory were young Tom Riddle's followers and admirers—the forerunners of the Death Eaters, and indeed, many became the first Death Eaters upon leaving school. If you were to go back and review the events of the war that ended with your parents' deaths, you would noticed that anything and everything of importance was enacted by Voldemort himself. He has never been able to abide the idea of being reliant on anyone—you remember from when I offered to escort him to Diagon Alley the first time I met him? I doubt very highly that Regulus Black was admitted into Voldemort's confidence in this, his most secret matter."

"So what are you saying?" Sirius asked quietly.

"I am saying that it would be extremely beneficial if we were to discover the undoubtedly extraordinary manner in which your brother discovered Voldemort's secret—and whether he managed to destroy the Horcrux he knew of," Dumbledore said thoughtfully.

"You mean to say there are _more_ Horcruxes?" Harriet blurted. Voldemort had already split his soul into three—she couldn't even begin to entertain the idea of splitting it again. _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ warned heavily against the splitting of one's soul _once_.

"Voldemort cannot be treated with the same standards set by the _usual_ evil wizard bent on world domination," Dumbledore said darkly. "I think you may understand the magnitude of evil Lord Voldemort is capable of—was capable of at the age of sixteen—after watching the memory of one Horace Slughorn that you so wonderfully procured for us."

* * *

"_Seven_!" Five minutes later, after diving into the Pensieve, Harriet staggered, horrified, back to her chair. _Seven _Horcruxes? She could not stomach the idea of even making _one_ extra Horcrux. She knew Voldemort had made two, with the potential of another resting in Regulus's discovery—but _seven_! "He made _seven_ Horcruxes?!"

Sirius gaped, mortified.

"Oh, I don't think so," Dumbledore smiled gravely.

"No?"

"No. I believe he was waiting to make the seventh after the event of _your _murder. He seems to have saved the creation of Horcruxes for particularly special kills—his first, for example, and the murder of the father who abandoned him."

"But—but that's still _six_," Harriet squeaked desperately. "Not including Voldemort himself."

"You are forgetting that _you_ have already seen to one Horcrux, and I another," Dumbledore smiled.

"That's still _four_!" Harriet croaked, gaping at Dumbledore. Sirius opened his mouth but didn't seem able to speak. "And they could be _anything_."

"I do not think Lord Voldemort would choose to encase fragments of his precious soul in _any_thing," Dumbledore smiled subtly. "Before I show you another memory, I would like to ask your opinion on a matter—I have been deliberating since your collapse during Potions over the strange behaviour of Lord Voldemort's snake."

"_Nagini_?"

"Uncanny, don't you think, how obediently she acted on Lord Voldemort's desires, without him even voicing them? Strangely in-tune, do you not agree, that he has such a level of control over her, even for a Parselmouth?" Dumbledore said.

"And…and I saw Avery killed—well, I saw her killing Avery through her eyes," Harriet nodded slowly.

"Ah, yes, and Voldemort used Nagini to murder a Muggle man this summer," Dumbledore said quietly, and Harriet glanced at him, biting her lip. "During your dream, you wondered how Voldemort could have held the wand that killed the Muggle caretaker."

"Idiotic of him," Sirius spoke up darkly, "to use an animal as a Horcrux."

"Shouldn't you use animals?" Harriet asked. "Or other people?" Something stirred in Dumbledore's eyes when she said that. She ignored it, glancing at Sirius.

"It is possible to use animals—but highly inadvisable," Dumbledore said quietly.

"Why inadvisable?"

"You remember _Secrets of the Darkest Art_, Harriet?" Sirius said. "Do you remember what it said of the dangers of Horcruxes?"

"Besides maiming your soul beyond repair?" Harriet asked dryly. Sirius gave her a sardonic little smile.

"Fine, then, do you remember Hermes' analogy—that should he have killed Rhona, her soul would have remained intact though her body was destroyed?" Sirius asked. Harriet nodded. "The fragment of soul separated from the whole, bound inside an object, inanimate, or, in the case of this snake, Nagini, animate, is entirely reliant upon the object inside which it is bound. Should someone somehow manage to destroy the case so that the Horcrux couldn't repair itself—say the diary, for example, you mutilated it beyond repair using Basilisk venom—then the fragment of soul within it is also destroyed."

"So if I was to kill Nagini…"

"The Horcrux bound within her would also be destroyed," Sirius nodded, finishing her train of thought. "You see the problem, of using animals? It would be too easy for them to be killed, or die in their own time. Snakes don't exactly live forever. Only six months if you set it on your deranged eldest cousin…" Harriet arched an eyebrow at Sirius, who smirked gently and winked at her. Harriet glanced at Dumbledore.

"But you think Voldemort created a Horcrux within Nagini?" she said, frowning.

"It would certainly explain her obedience—and how you could see through her eyes while she was connected with Voldemort," Dumbledore said slowly. "I imagine the idea must have come to him when he used her to kill the Muggle man during the summer."

"Okay…so…we've destroyed the diary and the ring. We can't get at Voldemort till _all_ the Horcruxes are destroyed," Harriet frowned, "but you believe Nagini to be one of the four remaining Horcruxes, and Regulus's Horcrux makes another. That's still two more."

"Ah, as to those," Dumbledore smiled, "I believe we may garner insight into Voldemort's choices with the memory of a house-elf named Hokey. Hokey was the house-elf of a very old, very acquisitive witch named Hephzibah Smith, who was visited regularly by the assistant shop-keeper of _Borgin and Burke's_—Tom Riddle."

"Voldemort worked _there_," Harriet said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "But Slughorn said he could've gone on to be Minister for Magic in ten years if he'd wanted."

"Mm…the reasoning behind Voldemort's career choice after he left Hogwarts is beyond me, though by watching this memory, I feel you will understand the, er, _perks_ of the job," Dumbledore said.

He poured yet another memory into the Pensieve and Sirius accompanied them again—it was easier to have him experience the memory too rather than fill him in once they'd seen it—into the memory of Hokey, house-elf to an old witch named Hephzibah Smith.

* * *

"Hephzibah Smith died two days after that memory," Dumbledore said calmly, as he settled back into his throne-like chair.

"Two guesses why," Harriet said darkly. Dumbledore nodded.

"Hokey the house-elf was convicted of poisoning her mistress's evening cocoa by accident."

"_What_?" Harriet glowered.

"Mm…I see we are of the same mind. There are many similarities between Miss Smith's death and the murder of the Riddle's—the biggest being that someone else took the blame—someone who had a very clear memory of having caused the death—"

"Hokey _confessed_?" Harriet said, disgusted. That poor old house-elf, so tiny she hadn't reached the top of Hephzibah's seat, so old her skin was papery and translucent!

"Hokey remembered putting something in Hephzibah's drink that turned out not to be sugar but a lethal and little-known poison," Dumbledore said gravely. "It was concluded that, being so old and confused, Hokey had not meant to kill her mistress, however, as with Morfin Gaunt, the Ministry was predisposed to suspect Hokey—"

"Because she was a _house_-_elf_," Harriet growled, thinking that she would put a lot more effort into her role in S.P.E.W. She remembered Winky, remembered that Winky was at this very moment downstairs in the kitchens with the rest of the hundred house-elves who served the establishment of Hogwarts, and she remembered Dobby, poor, downtrodden Dobby. And she remembered the reactions of the wizards who had or worked with house-elves—Mr Crouch, how cruel he was to Winky, and Mr Diggory (though Harriet didn't like to think badly of Cedric's family) who had been so horrible to her when he questioned her, simply because she was a house-elf who had found Harriet's wand in the wood.

"Exactly. Hokey was very old, and, having admitted to tampering unknowingly with her mistress's drink, the Ministry didn't bother delving further into Miss Smith's death," Dumbledore said quietly. "Hokey was nearing the very end of her life when I managed to extract this memory from her—as with the case of Morfin, she died shortly after I had taken it. While this memory proves only that Voldemort knew of Hephzibah's possession of Slytherin's locket and the cup of Helga Hufflepuff, I am sure that Hephzibah's family would have greatly liked to know this, for by the time Hokey had been convicted by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Hephzibah's family had realised that her two greatest treasures were missing: it took them a while to be certain of this, as Hephzibah had many hiding places, and had always guarded her collection jealously.

"By the time they realised the cup and the locket had gone, the assistant at _Borgin_ _and_ _Burke's_, the handsome young man who had visited her so regularly and charmed her had resigned his post and disappeared, which came as much a surprise to Borgin and Burke as to Hephzibah's irate family members. That was the last time anybody heard anything of the young Tom Riddle for many years."

"So he only killed Hephzibah for her treasures—he threw away his job at Borgin and Burke's just for them?" Sirius frowned.

"The locket," Harriet said thoughtfully. "He'd _definitely_ have thought the locket was rightfully his, as it had belonged to her mother, so I could understand why he'd want to have something that belonged to her… But why the cup, why Hufflepuff's cup? It doesn't make any sense why he'd want to take it."

"As to that, I am sure the lure of an object so steeped in magical history was one Voldemort could not deny," Dumbledore said. "He felt a deep pull towards the school, his first home, I believe, and I am sure he would not have been able to resist the possession of a Hogwarts founder, as his own ancestor had also been."

Harriet thought Voldemort was the cruellest, most selfish and callous being she had ever had the misfortune to be forced to kill.

"So d'you think he made _them_ into Horcruxes?" Harriet asked. "It'd make sense, wouldn't it? They'd probably be his most prized possessions, if they had both belonged to Hogwarts founders, even if he _did_ steal them."

"Very astute," Dumbledore smiled.

"Okay…okay, so…the locket, the cup, and Nagini," Harriet ticked off her fingers. "There's still another."

"Yes."

"D'you know what it might be?"

"I have guesses."

"And they're usually correct," spoke up Sirius, looking half-admiring, half exasperated.

"You flatter me," Dumbledore chuckled softly. "It is my belief that, having secured items from two of Hogwarts' founders—Salazar Slytherin and Helga Hufflepuff—Voldemort attempted to try and find items owned by the other two—Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw. While I cannot answer to whether Voldemort ever managed to find anything belonging to Rowena Ravenclaw—there being very few accounts of anything that was seen to be particularly attached to her as the locket and cup where to _their_ owners—I can attest personally that the only remaining relic of Godric Gryffindor remains safe."

He pointed over Harriet's shoulder and she glanced around, where the silvery light of the Pensieve danced across the glass case of Godric Gryffindor's ruby-encrusted sword.

Harriet, thinking quickly, was allowed to sit in silence for a few minutes; they were all lost in thought, Dumbledore rising in his chair as he sucked on another Levitating Sherbet ball, Sirius brooding.

"So…so if I want to finish Voldemort, I have to…I have to track down the Horcruxes and destroy them all," Harriet said quietly. "And then kill _him_?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Right."

* * *

**A.N.**: Reviews, please!

* * *


	39. In On the Secret

**A.N.**: Er…more in the Cedric department!

* * *

**In On the Secret**

* * *

The discussion between Harriet, Rhona, Hermes and Sirius that evening was the longest yet: it was four a.m. before anyone got to bed, and they had dissected the evening's events so meticulously that Harriet's brain felt like a pan of scrambled eggs. Hermes had started scribbling down notes from _Hogwarts: A History _as they talked, making a note every time he read the names Godric Gryffindor and Rowena Ravenclaw, trying to find any mention of objects either two held in great esteem. Rhona had been utterly disgusted and nauseated by the idea of the _seven_—or rather, six Horcruxes: she had begun reading _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ and most nights Harriet was woken by Rhona's vivid dreams: Harriet recommended meditation.

On Tuesday night, or rather, Wednesday morning, when they finally staggered upstairs, half-asleep, Harriet focused on clearing her mind of all thought and emotion: she had yet to discover when her next Occlumensy lesson would begin, as Snape had not spoken a word to her on Tuesday, but she was beginning to feel how acutely dangerous it was to give Voldemort even a glimpse into her mind.

It he could penetrate her mind, he would know _she_ knew about his Horcruxes, and she couldn't even imagine how difficult he would make it for her to find them. So she focused on emptying her mind, erasing all thought: It helped that she could still remember what it felt like to be under the Imperius Curse, and channelled that feeling of vagueness.

Harriet still hadn't told Hermes or Rhona about the memory Snape had unintentionally forced her to relive, and on matter how many reproving looks Padfoot the dog gave her, she just couldn't bear their expressions. She had mentioned to Rhona that her mother had worn the same perfume she'd bought from _Madam Primpernelle's_, _Poesie_, and that her father had wanted her to be a professional Quidditch player for England, but she hadn't told either her or Hermes how she knew that.

* * *

She didn't see Cedric around school over the next few days; either they had missed each other in the corridors, or else Cedric was avoiding her for some reason Harriet couldn't fathom. She wondered why he had been down in the dungeons with Dumbledore and Sirius, and was relieved, though not really surprised, that he hadn't told anybody about seeing the notorious mass-murderer Sirius Black, who had been dead-set on murdering Harriet in cold blood, beating up their Potions professor.

On Thursday as she was walking down to lunch with Rhona and Hermes, Cedric emerged out of Transfiguration with the rest of his class. Unusually, his gaggle of friends and admirers didn't follow him as he left; he spotted her and walked straight towards her.

"Hi," he said, and smiled, nodding, at Rhona and Hermes.

"Um… Can we talk?" Cedric asked, glancing at Hermes and Rhona nervously before focusing back on Harriet. Hermes glanced at Harriet before he inconspicuously gripped Rhona's elbow and marched her away, her shouts of, "_Ow_! What're you _doing_?" echoing down the corridor. Harriet followed Cedric into the classroom from whence he had just come. He frowned at her, nibbling on his lower-lip, and closed the door behind her. She turned and perched on the edge of the teacher's desk, swinging her legs slowly.

"I…I don't really know what's going on, here," Cedric said slowly.

"With what?" Harriet asked warily. Cedric glanced at her, eyes wide.

"About…Harriet, I'm not _stupid_."

"I know you're not."

"—so I know that that man in the dungeons with us was Sirius Black," Cedric continued quickly, as if trying to get the worst over with quickly, staring at her beseechingly, as if trying to make her tell him otherwise. "…I'm right, aren't I?"

He sank onto the nearest desk, staring at her.

"But he's…he was trying to _murder you_ last year," Cedric said, staring.

"No—no, he wasn't," Harriet said gently, jumping onto her feet and walking closer to Cedric, licking her lips. "He… He was trying to _save_ me." Cedric stared at her.

"I don't understand," he admitted. Harriet stared into his face, into his eyes; she'd never really _looked_ for this amount of time, uninhibited, at him.

She realised then that she had a choice; she could tell Cedric the truth, and have another true friend who knew absolutely everything, because she knew that Cedric was trustworthy; not even a glimmer of what had happened down in the dungeon study had leaked out: Or she could lie, say he'd been imagining things, flatly refuse to tell him anything and never speak to him again about it.

"Do you remember what you saw, in the Pensieve?" she asked quietly. Cedric's eyes flickered between both of her own, his lovely thick eyelashes fluttering.

"Can't forget it," he whispered, his expression heartbroken. Harriet nodded understandingly: if it weren't for meditating for Occlumensy, she would've had nightmares. She licked her lips, wondering how to begin.

"Okay…well…Sirius Black was my father's best-friend," Harriet began. "When my parents went into hiding with me, they wanted Sirius to be their Secret-Keeper."

"But he was a _Death_—"

"_No_, he _wasn't_," Harriet said strongly: She took a deep breath. "At the last minute, Sirius had the idea to have my parents use Peter Pettigrew as their Secret Keeper. Sirius knew Voldemort—sorry, You-Know-Who—would go after him, because everyone knew he was my dad's best-friend. But Peter Pettigrew was a spy for V- for You-Know-Who. He told him where my parents were hiding barely a week after the Fidelius Charm had been performed."

Cedric stared at her for almost a whole minute. "That's ludicrous."

"No, it isn't," Harriet said desperately, reminded of Rhona in the Shrieking Shack last summer. She hadn't been as quick to believe, either. Neither had Hermes, but that was to be expected. "The night my parents were killed, Sirius came to the cottage, he saw what had happened, and _he_ went after _Pettigrew_…Pettigrew was an Animagus, that's how he disappeared; that's how the only part of him the Aurors ever found was a finger—because he cut it off before transformed, just after he'd killed all those Muggles with an explosion."

Cedric stared at her, as if half-enthralled, half-disbelieving.

"How do you know all this?" he asked in a whisper. Harriet swept her eyes over Cedric's face.

"D'you want me to tell you the whole story, or the highlights?" she asked.

"The whole story, please," Cedric said: They made their way downstairs to the Great Hall, and both of them took a seat at the Gryffindor table: Harriet began at the most plausible beginning _she_ could think of—the last day of term before the Christmas holidays last year, when she'd snuck into Hogsmeade; what she'd heard in the Three Broomsticks, hiding under the table. They made their way through lunchtime talking, but Harriet hadn't even reached the part past Remus Lupin appearing in the Shrieking Shack before the bell for lessons rang—mostly because Cedric kept asking her questions.

* * *

"Can I sit with you at dinner?" Cedric asked; his eyes were large, illuminated with wonder. "So you can finish telling me?" Harriet pulled her bag up off the floor and nodded as she looped it over her head.

"I'd like that," she said, smiling gently. Padfoot pattered up to her, licked her palm and glanced up at Cedric, fixing his pale eyes on him. Cedric stared back, then leaned in to Harriet and whispered in her ear;

"You're right; he's _way_ too intelligent for an ordinary dog," he said, and Harriet smiled to herself as he jogged to catch up with his Hufflepuff friends. Rhona jumped her the first opportunity she got:

"So, what were you and _Cedric_ _Diggory_ whispering about all lunchtime, hm?" she asked tauntingly.

"Oh, for god's sake, Rhona, can't you let Harriet have any secrets?" Hermes asked impatiently. "How'd you like it if I demanded to know every single detail of your conversations with _Dean_?"

Rhona blinked at him and turned back to Harriet; "_Tell me_ what you were talking about."

"Cat, rat and dog," Harriet smiled, leaving Rhona very confused as they made their way up to Defence with Moody.

Rhona wasn't the only one who'd noticed her sitting with Cedric Diggory at lunchtime, nor the only one to mention it: Lavender and Parvati, however, were a lot more subtle than Rhona, talking to Rhona and Hermes as Harriet took out parchment and stylus for notes, subtly avoiding eye-contact with either of them because she didn't want to give herself away and _smile_.

"Parchment out!" was the first thing Moody barked when he stumped into the classroom, and Harriet was free to smile to herself, her hair, falling around the headband from _Madam Primpernelle's_ she now wore religiously, creating curtains to block her smile from Rhona and Hermes, though by the end of the lesson, Hermes was looking very pleased about something—and Rhona, Lavender, Parvati and Norah all started giggling and whispering maddeningly when Cedric met Harriet at the door at the end of the lesson.

* * *

Sitting at Cedric's table this time, getting extremely envious looks from the other girls sitting around them, Harriet finished the story, eating her way through a tender beef goulash topped with sour cream and paprika and sharing an apple strudel with Cedric: At first she didn't know whether she had Cedric convinced of Sirius's innocence, whether he thought she was insane to entertain such an idea, whether he thought she was making it up, but by the end of the story (she'd ended it after making him swear on his Cleansweep never to tell his father or anyone else how Hermes had used his Time-Turner to free Sirius) he was disgusted that the Ministry had given Pettigrew an Order of Merlin, astounded that Sirius could have kept his sanity in Azkaban after so long, and admiring that the only reason he had broken out was to save the life of the goddaughter he had never met save since she was a year old.

"So he's living here now?" he said quietly, glancing over at Padfoot, who was lapping up the gravy from the goulash in his bowl, then licked his paws and crossed them gentlemanly. "Why, though? Pettigrew isn't here, is he?"

"No, I don't think he's anywhere near Hogwarts," Harriet said quietly, glancing at Sirius; she glanced at Cedric. "He just wants to be near me, so he can protect me if I need it… It's nice to have him here, though…it's almost like…like having a dad."

Cedric studied her face thoughtfully as he cut them seconds of the strudel, drowning them with fresh custard (which Harriet could eat either hot or cold, except if it had a skin, which she detested). "…Your mother was very beautiful."

Harriet glanced at him; she'd almost forgotten, so consumed with telling Sirius' story, that Cedric had seen her memory. She nodded in agreement, focusing on her strudel. She licked the custard off her lips and glanced at Cedric, who had been watching her thoughtfully.

"You have her cheekbones," he said, reaching out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear; she flicked her eyes over his face, feeling that familiar flutter in her stomach. "You have your father's nose, though, but yours is prettier." He smiled playfully and ran his fingertip down her nose, gently pressing the end of it like a button. She laughed and leaned away, swatting his hand gently away from her face playfully, smiling.

Cedric glanced over at Sirius, who sat up, his features alert as he stared over at them. He glanced back at Harriet and a mischievous smile flickered across his lips, making his eyes glow. "D'you think he'd come and maul me if I tried to kiss you?"

Harriet laughed, though she couldn't quite stop herself from blushing: She glanced over at Sirius. "Probably," she whispered at Cedric, who chuckled.

* * *

It was perhaps fortunate that she shared a dormitory with three other girls, two of whom Rhona couldn't really _stand_ to talk to because they were just so impossibly _girlish_ and swoony all the time. It was probably only that factor that prevented Rhona from pummelling information out of Harriet the moment they reached Gryffindor tower after dinner. Though Rhona hinted at it, though she cast aspersions, though she had teetered on the brink of impropriety about Harriet's involvement with Cedric, she didn't ask outright, not in front of Gryffindor gossipmongers Parvati and Lavender, what she and Cedric had been giggling about so conspiratorially at dinner—"_at _the _Hufflepuff_ table!"

"Rhona," Hermes sighed heavily, resting his head back against the back of the sofa, resting a hand over his eyes. "Would you give it a rest?"

"No," Rhona said tartly. She sighed heavily, seeing she was going to get nowhere with Harriet making subtle hints. "Okay, Harriet, let me present exhibit A to you—Cedric Diggory chooses to seek you out with the sole purpose of wanting to speak to you."

"Is it a crime to talk to members of the opposite gender nowadays?" Harriet asked mildly. She wrinkled her nose at a particularly stomach-churning image in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_, which she was now three-quarters of the way through, but otherwise ignored Rhona.

"Exhibit B," Rhona continued, as if there had been no interruption. "Cedric Diggory chooses to wait for you outside our Defence classroom and escorts you down to dinner."

"And they say chivalry's dead," said George Weasley, snatching a few sheets of parchment from Rhona's bag. He winked at Harriet; "Nice catch." Harriet rolled her eyes, but couldn't help feeling very pleased with herself if she had George's approval, something Cedric had been struggling to gain over the two weeks he'd spent at the Burrow.

"And finally," Rhona continued, when Fred and George, always the last next to them to leave the common-room of an evening, had filtered upstairs, "the _clincher_? _Intense_, some would even say _smouldering_ eye-contact during dinner—the _second_ meal Cedric chose to spend with you—he was _mad-dogging you_—_plus_ he was completely flirting with you, being all touchy feely…I would like some answers."

Glancing around the common-room to ensure their privacy, she glanced back and opened her mouth just as Sirius the man morphed into the squashy armchair nearest the fire.

"Fine," she shot at Rhona. "I'll tell you. Today, at lunchtime, and at dinner, I was telling Cedric about what happened in June—with Sirius and Pettigrew and Remus."

Rhona looked superbly confused.

Hermes slammed his book shut and sat up straight, glaring at Harriet.

"You did _what_?" he shouted, making them all jump.

"Take a chill-pill, Hermes," Rhona said, laying a hand on Hermes' shoulder.

"Harriet, how could you _do_ that? You _know_ how much Sirius means to you—why would you endanger him like that?"

"Because Cedric's _seen_ Sirius," Harriet said impatiently, rolling her eyes. That stumped them. Sirius smirked, crossing his ankles on the coffee-table, and looking so natural doing so that Harriet guessed that armchair had been his favourite when _he_ was a student here.

"He's _WHAT_?"

"Harriet," Sirius said quietly, glancing past Hermes, who had bolted out of his seat, his fists clenched around his wand, "I think you'd better tell them."

"_Sirius_," Harriet said warningly, glaring. She had told Rhona and Hermes so much already—she didn't want to imagine their expressions when she told them she'd revisited the memory of her year-old self watching her parents' murders, and the attempt of her own.

"Harriet…at least to stop Hermes cursing Cedric from every which way when he sees him next," Sirius said, and Harriet, glancing at Hermes, realised Sirius might have a point. If it was to keep Cedric alive with all the good bits still attached…

"And then I remember screaming and I kind of woke up and puked, and that's when Dumbledore and Cedric showed up, when I was cleaning it up with my wand, and Sirius kind of transformed back into a man…"

Hermes sank weak-kneed onto the sofa, staring at her with an expression of mingled horror and self-disgust. Rhona simply gaped.

"How come you didn't say anything about this?" Hermes asked quietly, and Harriet could tell he was almost a little bit hurt because she hadn't told them expressly everything. She shrugged.

"I don't know…I didn't want to worry you any more than you already are," she shrugged, playing with her tie. She yawned hugely and stretched luxuriously on the sofa. "Anyway…it's in the past, isn't it? Talking about it isn't going to bring them back, is it?"

A little while later, after Harriet had finished her Charms homework (finishing the last chapter of the third book Professor Flitwick had made them read in preparation for Summoning Charms) and Rhona had unwillingly helped Hermes count up all the cash in his S.P.E.W. collecting tin, the girls made their way upstairs; Padfoot zipped up before them, no doubt going to claim his place at the foot of Harriet's bed where she knew the warming-pan was always placed to heat the sheets.

"Did you like it?" Rhona asked quietly, as they made their way past the first dormitory, from whence issued Harriet's favourite Within Temptation song, '_Memories_'.

"Did I like what?"

"Seeing your parents," Rhona said thoughtfully, glancing down at Harriet. "I mean—I know, obviously, you didn't like seeing _that_ part of the memory, but…it's what you've always wanted, isn't it…to see your parents, your _family_. It's what you saw in the Mirror of Erised, wasn't it?"

Harriet didn't answer until a few steps later. "Yeah," she said slowly. She glanced up at Rhona, wondering how she could have been that perceptive, that perhaps Harriet hadn't wanted to talk about it because she'd felt guilty about _wanting_ to relive the memory again, when it was dark and quiet in the dormitory and she could still hear her father's voice announcing her name to a crowd of a hundred-thousand. "How did you…?"

"Hey, I may be the insensitive tart, but I've always known that's what you wanted—to see your family, and have a home like my family's—you said so the first time you ever came to stay at the Burrow," Rhona shrugged. "Guess it's kind of a guilty pleasure, isn't it? You can't help wanting to see them."

Harriet smiled sadly at her best-friend, and nodded; Rhona slipped her arm around Harriet's slim shoulders and they made their way upstairs. Rhona asked Harriet to tell her about her parents, before the memory had ruptured so horrendously. So Harriet had told her—everything she could remember, all the tiny details, down to the fact that there was very little pink in the main part of the house because, Harriet suspected, it would have clashed with her mother's hair. She remembered that there were flowers in every room and the walls up the staircase had been lined with photographs documenting her parents' way through childhood to early adulthood, marriage and very early parenthood.

* * *

**A.N.**: Review please!

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	40. Tonks, and an Opaleye Named Harriet

**A.N.**: Er…For _SlytherclawXHuffledor_, this is the chapter _before_ Beauxbatons and Durmstrang…I think! So you don't have to wait long for them (hopefully it's worth the wait—I've actually integrated them into the story, not just said, oh, yeah, Krum's there, and there's some others too…!)

* * *

**Tonks, and a****n Opaleye named Harriet**

* * *

A notice had appeared in the Entrance Hall when Harriet, Rhona and Hermes staggered downstairs for breakfast on Friday morning: Rhona, the tallest of the three (though only by an inch, as Hermes had been inconspicuously gaining on her) peered over the heads of the crowd and read the sign aloud;

* * *

'_TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT_

_The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be a__rriving at six o'clock on the thirtieth of October. Lessons will end half an hour early. Students will return their bags and books to their dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to greet our guests before the Welcoming Feast_.'

* * *

"The thirtieth—that's next Friday," Harriet said, counting on her fingers. "Right?" she glanced at Hermes for confirmation: He nodded thoughtfully. "Excellent! It's Potions last thing! Snape won't have time to try and '_accidentally'_ poison me!"

"He'd better _not_ try, after what he did to you on Monday," Hermes said darkly: Hermes was still in very deep indignation at the treatment Snape had been subjecting Harriet to during Occlumensy lessons (though she had, admittedly, only had two) and it was wisest not to mention Snape too often around him.

"Only a week away," Ernie Macmillan grinned excitedly as he turned and saw them. He frowned to himself, "I wonder if Cedric knows. I think I'll go and tell him…"

"Cedric?"

"How many Cedrics do we know, Rhona?" Hermes asked testily, rolling his eyes.

"You know who he is, Rhona," Harriet played along, pretending Rhona was prodigiously dim. "He stayed at your house for two weeks during the summer. We saw him in his glow-in-the-dark dragon boxers in the woods after the Quidditch World Cup."

"Of course _that's_ the memory you recall particularly _vividly_ of him!" Rhona smirked, and there was a new spring in her step as she sauntered, taunting Harriet, to the Gryffindor table. Harriet rolled her eyes and shook her head. They sat down beside the twins, who were shaking their heads darkly.

"Did you hear—Cedric _Diggory_'s going to put his name in for the Tournament," Fred growled dangerously.

"That _idiot_, Hogwarts champion?" George shook his head.

"He isn't an idiot," Harriet sighed irritably. "I thought you'd got past him beating us _fair and square_ at Quidditch when he was at the Burrow this summer." Fred and George grumbled mutinously, still injured that they weren't allowed to submit their names for consideration.

"And Cedric's actually _very_ smart, you know, he's a _very_ good student," Hermes said, sticking up for the only bloke in this place who probably was decent enough to not get annoyed that Hermes was smarter than him, and who entertained Hermes' inextinguishable thirst for knowledge by answering any and all questions he could think to put to Cedric in a five-minute conversation between lessons on any given day.

"And he's a prefect, you know," Rhona said.

"Well, we can't hold _that_ against him," Harriet sighed, shaking her head. Neither her father nor Sirius had been prefects. "It wasn't his choice—if anyone's to blame, it's Dumbledore."

Fred and George looked at her as if she was their first-born child, so utterly tender and loving that for the rest of the day, they went out of their way _not_ to pull any pranks on her out of such deep respect.

* * *

Harriet noticed, over the weekend particularly, that the castle was undergoing a very stringent cleaning: several grungy portraits in the upper, lesser-used corridors had been scrubbed by Filch, their subjects wincing as they touched their rough pink cheeks tenderly, whispering mutinously, and the suits of armour were now gleaming so highly she could have changed her contact-lenses in front of them; they still moved about and tended to laugh when students were tripped by Peeves, but they moved noiselessly now. Mr Filch terrified a couple of first-year girls in Hufflepuff into hysterics because they'd forgotten to wipe their shoes coming in to dinner from the greenhouses. (They were cheered up in no time by Cedric, who had been coming upstairs from a double-Potions lesson at the time).

All anybody could talk about was the Triwizard Tournament, and the students who would be arriving from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and how they differed from Hogwarts students. Harriet was glad of this—it gave her something else to think about besides Horcruxes and Rhona, who felt they were beyond her understanding (she'd given up reading _Secrets of the Darkest Art_), was so obsessed with the thirtieth of October that she forgot to tease Harriet about how frequently Cedric came up to her in the corridors just to say hello.

The teachers were becoming extremely tense—and extremely worried about how their students would reflect the historically high standards of education at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—and Professor McGonagall was unfairly unkind to Norah after one particularly gruelling Transfiguration lesson, during which Norah had accidentally transplanted her own ears onto a cactus. "Kindly do _not_ reveal to anyone from Durmstrang that you cannot even perform a rudimentary Switching Spell."

Norah nodded, red-faced.

* * *

When they went down to breakfast on the morning of Friday the thirtieth, the Great Hall had been decorated overnight. It wasn't decorated as it might have been for Halloween or Christmas, but it _had_ been decorated, and the beautiful silk banners added something to the stone walls; the day was clear, cool grey, with clouds gilded with weak silver sunlight, and they illuminated the stitching on the banners: the long banners each represented a Hogwarts house—yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, emerald-green with a silver serpent for Slytherin, and a rich blood-red with a golden lion for Gryffindor. An enormous banner behind the staff table bore the Hogwarts crest—lion, eagle, badger and snake united around a large and intricate letter 'H'.

Fred and George immediately dropped their conversation the moment they approached, casting them wary glances. They had been behaving very oddly, Harriet had noticed before; usually they liked to be the centre of attention, in the thick of the action, but recently they had been seen huddled in quiet corners, conversing in low, urgent tones, always stopping abruptly when they thought someone was eavesdropping.

"So, have you two thought any more about entering the Tournament?" Harriet asked, helping herself to porridge and copious amounts of cream and sugar, as Rhona poured them all tea: they'd been up late going over their second drafts of essays due in for Snape this afternoon (Hermes always read their essays and made them rewrite them if they weren't up to scratch before they could embarrass themselves and _him_ by association).

"Well, I asked McGonagall how the champions are selected, but she just told me to shut up and focus on transfiguring my racoon," George sighed.

"I wonder what the tasks are gonna be," Rhona whispered in an awed voice. "I bet we could do 'em, Harriet."

"Not in front of a panel of judges, you couldn't," Fred said tartly, sipping his milk. "McGonagall told us the champions get awarded points according to how well they've done the tasks."

"Well, considering Harriet's defeated You-Know-Who twice—well, technically three times—_and_ saved Norah's life, protected Sir—" Harriet stamped her heel into Rhona's toe; she yelped and shot her a venomous look. Fred and George didn't know anything about Sirius. "Well, I'm just saying I bet Harriet could do the tasks. Can't be more difficult than facing You-Know-Who at eleven years old, can they?"

"Who're the judges?" Harriet asked interestedly; she had no desire to put her name up for the Triwizard Tournament; that had not changed, but she couldn't help feeling excited about it like everybody else.

"Well, the Heads of the participating schools are always on the panel," Hermes said, and everyone looked around at him, slightly surprised: Until the Welcoming Feast, Harriet didn't think he'd even heard of the competition; she certainly hadn't. "Because all three of them were injured in the Tournament of 1792, when a cockatrice the champions were supposed to be catching went on the rampage."

And, with his usual air of impatience that nobody had bothered to read all the books he had, he added, "It says so in _Hogwarts: A History_. Though, of course, that book's not entirely reliable. 'A _Revised_ History of Hogwarts' would have been a more appropriate title, or perhaps, 'A Highly Biased and Selective History of Hogwarts, Which Glosses Over the Nastier Aspects of the School.'"

"Hermes, please don't start on S.P.E.W. now," Harriet pleaded groggily. "It's _way_ too early." Hermes had been absolutely thrilled that she wanted to take a more active role in S.P.E.W., particularly after what she'd seen in Hokey's memory, but not at half-eight in the morning.

"Not _once_, in over a thousand pages does _Hogwarts: A History_ mention that we are all colluding in the oppression of a hundred slaves!" Hermes said passionately, and Harriet groaned, glancing at the twins, both of whom had flatly refused to join S.P.E.W. Whilst Harriet and Rhona had both paid their two sickles for a badge, only Harriet was really active in the society, helping Hermes scrounge up members (Harriet got a lot of help with this because of the scar on her forehead) but most people regarded the whole thing as a joke, and took the same line as Rhona about the society's name.

"Have you still not gone down into the kitchens?" Rhona asked tiredly, rumpling her hair and yawning widely into her scrambled eggs.

"You know very well I believe students aren't supposed to—"

"Well, I think you _should_," George said. "We've been down there _loads_ of times to nick food and stuff, and we've met them, and they're _happy_, Hermes."

"They're brainwashed," Hermes said tartly, applying himself to his sausages and bacon. Any argument the twins might've made in defence of the house-elves' happiness were drowned out by the fluttering of hundreds of wings; the post-owls had arrived, and, glancing up, Harriet saw two flecks of brilliant white amongst the mass of indiscriminate brown and grey.

Nincompoop the Cockatoo, belonging to Bathilda Bagshot, displayed his amazing citron-yellow crest as he soared down beside Hedwig, who looked vaguely annoyed that any other bird could look as beautiful as her in her snowy whites.

"Wicked bird," Fred grinned, and George raised his eyebrows as Nincompoop adjusted his wings with a rustle and cocked his head to one side at the bacon on Fred's plate as Harriet extricated the letter bound to the leather thong on his leg. He took off and scooped up a strip of bacon in his beak before soaring up through the rafters: Hedwig, annoyed, sat very still atop the pumpkin-juice jug and allowed Harriet to take the scroll from her leg.

"Don't worry," Harriet cooed softly, stroking Hedwig, "you're still the prettiest." Hedwig hooted tiredly, but proudly, ruffled her feathers, and took off with an affectionate nip of Harriet's finger.

"Who're the letters from, Harriet?" Hermes asked interestedly. Harriet picked up the envelope from Nincompoop and carefully undid the V-shaped flap of the envelope, relishing the idea of having _post_. That was one of the things she missed about summertime; there were more people to miss her and more people _she_ missed and a lot more people she could write to and get letters from. She always anticipated receiving letters—and Remus was a very loyal pen-pal.

"This one's from Remus," Harriet smiled, "the bird belongs to Bathilda Bagshot."

"Bathilda _Bagshot_? As in the author of _A History of Magic_?" Hermes gaped, but Harriet wasn't listening. She smiled at the card Remus had sent her—he knew she liked pretty cards, and tended to tack them up around her bed as decorations with her posters—which featured a collection of magnificent, brightly-coloured African Fwoopers (so claimed the little note on the back of the card). Two photographs fell out of the envelope onto the golden plate that had just cleaned itself of the remnants of Harriet's raspberry-jam toast. She read the letter inside first.

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_October 28__th__, 2009_

_Dear Harriet,_

_Thank you dearly for the chocolate you sent me. Whilst Bathilda has very kindly offered the service of a great-great-nephew of hers (who is a skilled potioneer who, I must admit, not unsurprisingly, is no fan of having his great-great-aunt in such close proximity to a werewolf) to brew the Wolfsbane Potion for me, my transformation is still very painful: that chocolate really lifted me up afterwards though._

_You missed quite an interesting day today: Bathilda's hundred-and-ninety-__fifth birthday! Can you believe it? She was ancient even when she knew _Dumbledore_ as a boy! I thought I'd enclose the photograph I took, as Tonks is in it: You asked about her before, and you've no idea how curious she is about you! She found Dean's drawing of the Smoad quite hilarious! I've had to find hiding places for your letters so she doesn't sneak a look at them when she visits. She's wily, though, and she keeps finding them! Bless her, though, she brought a birthday-cake for Bathilda that her mother made—Padfoot's cousin, Andromeda—and I think Bathilda enjoyed herself. I don't think anybody has remembered her birthday for quite a few years._

_The other photograph, you'll know it immediately, was taken on _your_ first birthday. I'm told by Bathilda that she was the only visitor that day, out of necessity for your family's safety—but she looks as if she's barely aged a day, physically, from that photograph. I'm afraid she might be right in saying the book we're working on will be her last. I think her mind is going, poor lady. Anyway, I thought you'd like to see the photograph: Bathilda remembered she had a whole catalogue of photographs (she _did_ love doting on you!) of you and Lily and James, and I expect she'll have me send them off to you as soon as she can remember where she's put them all!_

_I'm glad you enjoyed your Hogsmeade weekend so much—and I'm very glad you're keeping out of trouble; you've had enough near-death encounters __in the last three years to keep you constantly vigilant for the rest of your life, tell that to Moody! Placing the Imperius Curse on you, I don't know what Dumbledore was thinking allowing him to do that. But James could throw it off, too._

_Don't worry about Transfiguration—your father had trouble with Switching Spells at first, but he managed it: you're like him in that department, I noticed last year: He started hitting his magical stride about the end of our third year, and Transfiguration (as you know) __became one of his best subjects._

_And don't let Professor Snape bully you too much—_

_**Yeah. I always found a good kick up the arse or 'Levicorpus' worked really well**__** to get him to back off**_**—**

_Tonks, what are you—look what__ you've done! You're incorrigible_.

_**And you're inhuman—but you don't hear me complaining!**_

_Tonks!_

…_Sorry, Harriet! She's used Permanent Ink! I can't get it to disappear. You might say Tonks is a little…cheeky. She gets worse the more Butterbeer she's consumed. Bathilda thinks she's a riot, and I suppose she is. She makes us all smile, anyway._

_Anyway, say hullo to Padfoot for me (though I expect he's already planning a letter to send to me about Tonks as you read this!) and give my regards to Hermes and Rhona,_

_Love from_

_Remus_.

* * *

Harriet glanced down at Sirius, who'd been reading the letter as he sat on the floor beside her, his nose poking under her arm. He started to bark softly, his pale eyes dancing, and Harriet recognised that he was laughing. She rolled her eyes; "Bathilda Bagshot had her hundred-and-ninety-fifth birthday two days ago."

"Wow!" Hermes gaped. Harriet turned to the two photographs Remus had enclosed in the card.

The first was of a tiny, stooped little witch with a shock of white hair through which her scalp was almost clearly visible, her transparent skin glowing because of the candles lit on top of a large, lovely-looking cake iced with pink icing and sugar-roses. A happy, somewhat vague smile rendered the liver-spots on her face less-noticeable. The real eye-catching subject of the shot was the vibrantly-coloured woman squatting down beside Bathilda's armchair (Harriet realised just how tiny Bathilda was because of this). With a lovely heart-shaped face and vibrant bubble-gum pink hair in short, punky spikes, mischievous dark eyes and an impish grin, she was unconventionally beautiful, many little silver hoops glittering at her ears, a collection of necklaces and a studded collar were draped around her slender throat, glittering on her chest; she wore a vibrant _Lamia Baitmen _t-shirt and a black skirt with chains and zips and two braces dangling down by her sides, a pair of silver-spangled purple tights and a pair of heavy black boots with a chunky heel. Remus, tired but looking well-fed and happier than Harriet had yet seen him, darted into the photograph, squatting down beside Tonks and grinning at Harriet, waving.

The second photograph made Harriet still. Bathilda wasn't in this photograph: it was just Harriet and Lily. Lily's hair wasn't as long as in Harriet's memory of her; it was pulled up into a gently curling ponytail, her fringe brushed to the side; she wore a set of warm red summery robes and Harriet sat, smiling, in her lap, reclining against her mother's chest. Harriet wore little green robes, the sparse jet-black hair combed neatly to the side, kept in place by a thin green headband that had a largish rough-silk green flower to the side of the top of her head. She was smiling coyly into the camera through her eyelashes, sipping on a bottle of Butterbeer between her legs via a straw, and as Harriet watched, her dad came into the shot carrying a small birthday cake decorated with sugar roses and lilies and a little candle in the shape of the number 1, with several fairies sparkling amongst the flowers.

"Who's this one from?" Rhona asked, checking to see if there was a return address on the back of the second envelope. "I think I recognise the handwriting." Harriet tucked the photograph of herself and her mother into the inside pocket of her robes, over her heart, and took the second letter from Rhona.

It as of coarser, sturdier parchment, and, opening it, Harriet rolled her eyes at her best-friend. "You _should_ recognise the handwriting—it's from Charlie."

"Charlie's writing to you an' all? Jeez, you're not satisfied with Colin and Cedric, are you? Got a bit of a thing for C's haven't you," Rhona taunted. "Mum'd love it if you married Charlie—you'd _really_ be her daughter then!"

"Rhona, you know Charlie's always preferred animals," George said and Fred spat his pumpkin juice all over Hermes, who sat opposite him.

"Fred, you have a filthy mind," Angelina Johnson said, frowning reprovingly at him. Fred shrugged, giggling, as Hermes mopped up the juice on his copy of _Confronting the Faceless_.

"He did have that _one_ girlfriend, you remember, Fred, the one who hexed you 'cos you used her full name?" George said, his eyes glowing reminiscently as if hit by the purest ray of sunshine. "The one who could change _any_ part of her appearance _at will_."

"Oh yeah…" Fred sighed, his eyes glazing over, smitten. "Dear old Tonks…" Harriet glanced up.

"D'you mean Nympha_dora_ Tonks?" she asked. Fred and George exchanged a loving glance. "Why did they break up?"

"Well, Charlie moved to Romania, to work as a Dragon-Keeper, didn't he," George shrugged. "Tonks started the Auror Academy, I think, stayed in London. I always liked her, though; she always brightened up dinner-time in this place."

"I always thought she'd make a good match for Bill," Fred said speculatively. "Him with the dragon-hide boots, her with that studded collar she used to wear. She's not exactly _traditional_ for an Auror, is she?" Harriet smiled; she _could_ actually see Bill with the woman in the photograph. With his fang-earring and her short, punky hair, they would be quite an unpredictable pair. Harriet turned to Charlie's letter, leaving the twins to weigh the pros and cons of Tonks going out with Charlie to how well she'd get on with Bill.

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_I hope the twins and Rhona don't give you any hassle for getting letters from me (I know what they're like—if they __do__ give you grief, you can always use the charm 'Langlock', which will glue their tongues to the tops of their mouths) but it's worth my colleagues' curiosity to write to you._

_I've missed playing Quidditch with you—the other keepers aren't quite as enthusiastic about playing Quidditch in our downtime. Perhaps because most of them are nursing dragon-inflicted injuries at any given moment! I've learned not to gloat about seeing the Final by a fresh burn on my arm!_

_I know you'd asked about that hatchling dragon of Hagrid's that you and Rhona arranged to send to us, so I thought I'd send a photograph. She's the one with the jet-black ridges down her back—oh, that's right, I forgot you didn't know; Norbert's actually a female dragon. We've renamed her Norberta; in a few years she'll be a nesting dragon: there's already a ten-year-old male who's taken an interest in her._

_We took delivery of the first clutch of Antipodean Opaleye eggs the reservation's ever had two months ago, and they hatched about three weeks ago: the one in the photographs (she's the one with the pearly scales) was born with a lame wing, so if we hadn't got her out of the enclosure she'd've likely have been killed by her mother: she's in my special care, and strangely for a dragon, she's very affectionate—and not at all camera-shy. Admittedly she accidentally burned all my hair off after I took the last one (the one where she's staring into the lens) by sneezing a jet of fire at me. Lucky I've fireproofed all my possessions! But she reminds me of you when she grumbles in the morning at breakfast-time! So I named her Harriet!_

_The other dragon is a three-year-old male Romanian Longhorn. Notice his glittery gold horns? Earlier this week, me and a couple of other keepers apprehended a gang of poachers after his horns. We're hoping to put him in an enclosure with a year-old Longhorn who came from another reservation, to up the numbers of the Longhorns. Reckon we'll have a bit of trouble with Petra, though; she's unnaturally aggressive, even for a female dragon!_

_So that's what's going on at the reservation: I know you'd only ever seen baby Norberta before, so I thought I'd sent photos of the dragons __I take care of; strangely beautiful, aren't they? Completely terrifying when they're in a bad mood, but aren't we all?_

_I imagine school must be getting more difficult now you're nearing O.W.L.s, but take the advice from someone who failed __his__ Potions O.W.L. (by one mark!)—don't fall under the delusion that just 'cos they're ages away, you don't need to study now. Sorry to sound so much like, well, Percy, but I know how close you are with Rhona, and I know she tends to take after Fred and George in stuff like schoolwork…but I think Mum might spontaneously combust if anyone else in the family fails their exams!_

_Anyway, I suppose you're all excited about the Triwizard Tournament: I've booked days off the come and watch, but don't tell the others; I'd like to shock the hell out of them! Bill might be coming too; we've got a bet on, as to how the twins will try and put their names in for the Tournament before they're of age: I could really use the fifty galleons to put towards a new broom: Embry, the male Longhorn, maimed mine! I thought about a Firebolt, but my pay-check just isn't that large! What do you think of the new Cleansweep? I'll have to get one soon, or I'll have to stay here,_

_I'll see you soon,_

_Love__ Charlie_.

* * *

Harriet smiled, examining the photographs Charlie had sent, along with a few, tiny, rock-hard pearly scales from the Opaleye named Harriet. One photograph in particular she really liked: Charlie, grinning from ear to ear, set against a stunning snow-capped mountainous range, with the hatchling Opaleye, Harriet, clambering all over him, Charlie completely undeterred. The second favourite was of the Opaleye, who flexed its wings and peered curiously into the depths of the camera lens, blinking pupil-less opal eyes. She watched it sneeze, and the frame was filled with a blast of vivid scarlet flame. The Opaleye looked quite sheepish, hiding its face behind its wings (Harriet noticed that one of them was a bit deformed) until someone—no doubt Charlie—tossed a large steak onto the ground beside her.

At lunch, Harriet noticed Hagrid sitting up at the staff-table, and before heading off to Potions, went up to him and showed him the photographs of Norbert—or Norberta. She stood two feet taller than Charlie when on all fours. Hagrid was thrilled that Norberta was "growing up to be so _beautiful_!" and that she was happy, and that Charlie was "goin' ter help her ge' a family o' her own."

Harriet noticed Professor Snape rolling his eyes and rising from his seat; "I'd better go, Hagrid—double-Potions."

"Alrigh', have fun!" Hagrid chuckled.

"There's no need for sarcasm!" Harriet said curtly; Hagrid's eyes twinkled as she dashed off, keen on getting to the dungeons before Snape—she had had no Occlumensy lessons since her last, catastrophic one and no note declaring the date of the next one. Nor had Snape spoken a word to her—malicious or not—since the Occlumensy lesson. It was like being back at the Dursleys—he just refused, point-blank, to acknowledge that she existed.

This probably was to Harriet's benefit, because as their lesson on antidotes progressed and Snape scouted out potential candidates to poison, he did not look at her once.

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**A.N.**: Please review!

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	41. Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

**A.N.**: _SlytherclawXHuffledor_, I present the students of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang! PLEASE REVIEW, PEOPLE!

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**Beauxbatons and Durmstrang**

She and Rhona dashed up to the girls' dormitories when Potions ended half an hour early, dumped their bags on their beds, righted their robes, slipped cloaks on because they'd be waiting outside on the lawn for the delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, and ran back downstairs, merging with the hundreds of other students congregating just inside the Entrance Hall, on their way outside. The Heads of houses were ordering their students into lines.

"Miss Weasley, straighten your robes," McGonagall snapped. "Miss Patil, take that _ridiculous_ thing out of your hair," Parvati scowled at McGonagall (who was trying to right Norah's cloak, which was fastened beneath her left ear) and removed a large, glittering ornamental butterfly from the end of her long plait, "McLaggen, please stop drooling over Miss Weasley—Potter! _Someone give Potter a hairbrush!_"

Harriet rolled her eyes, jostled by the crowd, and McGonagall conjured a hairbrush out of thin-air. "It's no good," Harriet said desperately, trying to tug the tousled-ness out of her hair, "Professor, it _never_ lies flat."

"Come here," Rhona said, tugging the hairbrush out of Harriet's hands.

"_Ow_! My hair _is_ attached, you know!" Harriet yelped, as Rhona tried to scalp her.

"Potter, stop fussing!" McGonagall snapped.

"You were the one who told me I had to brush my hair!" Harriet said, wincing in pain as Rhona yanked on her hair.

"Does somebody have any spare hair-ties?" Rhona called, salvaging two pink hair-ties from a third-year Ravenclaw whose hair was in long blonde pigtails. Rhona finished one thick, tousled plait and flung it over Harriet's shoulder and started on the second, finishing the second in time for everyone to start making their way out onto the lawn.

"How d'you reckon they're getting here?" Rhona asked, as Harriet helped a tiny third-year Slytherin who'd just tripped over his robes in his excitement, and moved on with the rest of the Gryffindor fourth years, examining how long her thick, tousled plaits were; they reached her waist now. "Loony Lovegood reckons they're coming on _Thestrals_."

"_Who_?" Rhona pointed out a vague-looking blonde girl in the Ravenclaw third-year ranks with straggly blonde hair down to her bottom and protuberant grey eyes, who wore a Butterbeer-cork necklace and radish-like earrings. Harriet caught Rhona's eye and they both snickered.

"They might be coming on the train?" Dean Thomas suggested, who was stood beside Rhona and eyeing her with what Harriet recognised as hope.

"Doubt it," Hermes frowned.

"How, then? Brooms?" Harriet asked, staring up at the star-studded sky: it was an unusually clear night, no clouds to speak of, perfectly calm.

"Not from _that_ far away," Hermes frowned.

"What about a portkey?" Harriet suggested, massaging her stomach, remembering the tug she'd felt on it when she used the portkeys over the summer.

"Or maybe they can Apparate already—they're bound to be able to, if they're already seventeen," Rhona said excitedly: she was very interested about Apparition, but Harriet didn't like it at all.

"You can't Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, how many _times_ do I have to tell you?" Hermes said impatiently.

"Well, you're not coming up with any brilliant ideas," Rhona muttered.

The thrill of anticipation was beginning to wear off as the minutes passed and nothing happened, and the cool settled in and they began to shiver beneath their cloaks and robes. The breeze tickled against the back of Harriet's neck, which was never usually exposed, and she began to wish that having guests wasn't quite worth them all standing out here to catch pneumonia. She said as much to Rhona, whose teeth were chattering, and received a sharp _smack_ round the back of the head.

"Oi!" She whirled around, smoothing her hair, and glared up at Snape, who'd smacked her round the back of the head with a rolled-up parchment containing a register of his students. She turned back to Rhona, glowering.

"Probab-ab-ab-ly w-waiting t-t-to sh-sh-show off s-some s-spectacular entr-entrance," Rhona chattered, and Harriet had to roll her eyes as Dean put his arms around her in the context of 'warming her up!'

"Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches," Dumbledore called over their heads.

"'Bout bloody time," Harriet growled, shivering violently. And Snape _thwacked_ her round the back of the head with his scroll. "_Ow_!"

"You're not supposed to hit us, sir," Rhona said tartly, glancing over Harriet as she righted her plaits again. "We could report you to the board of governors."

Snape just rolled his eyes. "I _know_," he sighed, and whacked Dean Thomas over the head. "Hands off Weasley, Thomas."

"_Where are they_?" several students called.

"_There_!" yelled a sixth-year Hufflepuff, Cedric's friend, pointing over the Forest.

"What is it?"

"It's a _dragon_!" screamed a first-year, completely losing her head.

"Don't be stupid!" shouted Dennis Creevey. "It's a flying house!"

Dennis' guess was more accurate. Something large, about the size of the Dursleys' house, skimmed over the tips of the trees: as the lights shining from the many glittering windows of Hogwarts hit it, everyone saw a gigantic, powder-blue horse-drawn carriage, soaring towards them, pulled through the air by what, from reading _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, Harriet recognised to be palomino Abraxan winged-horses.

The carriage hurtled lower, causing the first three rows of students to draw back, and with an almighty crash that made Norah jumped backwards and tread accidentally on a fifth-year Slytherin's foot, the horses' hooves, larger than dinner-plates, hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed, bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the stunning golden horses tossed their enormous heads, flexing beautiful angel-like white wings, rolling fiery red eyes. Harriet glanced at the carriage, too enthralled by the beauty of the horses, and got a glimpse of the door of the carriage, on which a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, both emitting three golden stars) shone in the lights of the castle before the door swung open.

"_Oh_!" Rhona perked up, craning her head over the heads of the crowd to get a better look at how beautifully the pale-blue robes of finest silk clung to the buttocks of the boy who sprang sprightly from the carriage, bent over to fumble for a moment with something in the floor of the carriage, and unfolded a set of golden steps.

"I think I'm going to like Beauxbatons students, after all," Rhona giggled at Harriet, who nodded eagerly, laughing. Hermes tutted, then nudged Harriet: she glanced back at the carriage, and saw an enormous shiny patent-leather high-heeled shoe the size of a child's sled appear on the steps—followed immediately by the biggest woman Harriet had ever seen.

"_Wow_," Rhona gaped, and turned to Harriet to whisper in her ear, "and they say _Mum's_ big?!" A few people gasped: the size of the carriage and the horses explained themselves immediately.

Though she doubted there was an inch difference in their heights, somehow this woman, perhaps because Harriet was used to Hagrid, seemed infinitely huger. As she stepped into the light flooding in from the open Entrance Hall doors, the woman was revealed to have a very handsome, olive-skinned face, with glittering black eyes just like Hagrid's and a rather beaky nose; dressed from head to toe in black satin, with many gleaming opals at her throat and hands, she was very glamorous, her dark hair pulled into a relaxed chignon at the base of her neck. Dumbledore started to clap, and when a gracious smile spread across the woman's handsome face, she lost some of her size; like Hagrid, Harriet supposed, she just needed some getting accustomed to. She strolled towards Dumbledore, extending a hand very elegantly for a woman of her size, and, though monumentally tall himself, Professor Dumbledore (dressed in his best and most magnificent golden robes) had only to incline his head to kiss her hand.

"My dear Madame Maxime," Dumbledore smiled suavely. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

"Dumbly-dorr." Madame Maxime's voice was deep, luxurious, like dark velvet made into sound. "I 'ope I find you well?"

"They're _French_?" Harriet whispered; she knew that accent from Uncle Vernon watching '_Allo 'Allo_.

"Of course!" Hermes scoffed. "Their name _is_ Beauxbatons."

"Well, I got the crap beaten out of me during French class," Harriet remarked, "so what's it mean?"

"Beautiful sticks." Harriet caught Rhona's eye and they both burst into giggles. "You two are positively _vile_." They ignored him, giggling madly. Getting hit round the back of the head by Professor McGonagall this time only made them quieten their giggles, so they clung to each other.

"Girls, pay attention!" McGonagall snapped, and they pulled themselves up, still laughing silently, wiping their streaming eyes. The Beauxbatons students—a dozen boys and girls—stood shivering behind Madame Maxime. Considering their fine silk robes, this was unsurprising, though Harriet wondered, "Why didn't they _think_ to bring cloaks and things, idiots!" she whispered to Rhona, who hummed and nodded in agreement. A few of the girls had draped shawls and scarves around their heads, and from what Harriet could see of their expressions, the Beauxbatons students didn't seem at all impressed by Hogwarts—rather, to her they appeared to look…_contemptuous_ of it.

"What's Beauxbatons like?" Harriet asked Hermes.

"Well, I don't really know," Hermes shrugged. "_Hogwarts: A History_ mentions it when Beauxbatons have hosted the Tournament, and it's supposedly a great glittering palace, but you won't find drawings of it, because the heads are traditionally very secretive about their schools."

"'As Karkaroff arrived yet?" Madame Maxime asked imperiously.

"He should be here any moment," Dumbledore smiled. "Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?"

"_Trifle_," Rhona moaned longingly, and Harriet rolled her eyes.

"Warm up, I think," Madame Maxime said, "but ze 'orses—"

"Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them," Dumbledore smiled, "the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation which has arisen with some of his other—er—charges."

"Skrewts," Rhona smirked, laughing.

"Hey, Harriet!" Something brushed against the small of Harriet's back and she glanced over her shoulder to see Cedric waving at her, beckoning her closer. She leaned back past the Slytherin fifth years and grinned at Cedric.

"It's the Skrewts—they got out of their enclosure this afternoon," Cedric said, fighting off a grin. "We were in Herbology: Hagrid's been trying to round them up all afternoon! One of them set fire to his cabin!"

"Urgh! That lot loose on the grounds!" Harriet shivered convulsively, turning to Rhona to deliver the message.

"—Very well," said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly to Dumbledore; she had missed what they had been talking about, "will you please inform zis 'Agrid zat ze 'orses drink only single-malt whisky."

"Refined palate, they've got," Seamus smirked, and they all laughed softly.

"Very elegant, aren't they," Lavender Brown whispered to them, indicating the tall, svelte Beauxbatons students as they followed their headmistress through the gap between the students.

"Better pleased with themselves than what they see, I think," Harriet said, frowning at the expressions on the girls' faces as they looked down their noses at the people they passed and at Hogwarts itself.

"I wish _we _got to wear robes like those," Parvati sighed longingly, examining in minute detail the robes of the girls as they walked past, down to the quirky little hats and the matching blue shoes. "Look at the girls' hats! Aren't they sweet?"

"They look like a turd with a brim," Rhona remarked, and several people around them burst into laughter.

"Hey Hermes, how big d'you reckon Durmstrang's horses are going to be?" Seamus asked, leaning around Harriet and Rhona.

"Well, if they're any bigger than these Abraxans, even Hagrid'll have trouble with them—that's if he hasn't been killed by Skrewts already," Harriet said.

"I don't reckon the students from Durmstrang will be arriving by horses," Hermes said thoughtfully.

"Why not?"

"Well, what little I've read about the school, it's blanketed with snow during the wintertime, the students have to stay indoors at all times," Hermes said thoughtfully. "I can't imagine horses surviving in daily blizzards, not even ones like those." He gestured at the Abraxans, which were snorting and stamping, flexing their magnificent wings.

"D'you reckon they live in the Gulags, maybe?" Harriet asked: she remembered a little bit about the Russian Revolution when they glossed over the First World War in year-six History at her primary school.

"Siberia? Perhaps," Hermes shrugged. "It's remote enough, I suppose." But despite Hermes' speculations, most students were gazing hopefully at the sky.

"Buggar me, it's cold," Rhona chattered, rubbing her hands together and shivering. Harriet took out her wand and smiled when she successfully managed to produce a small ball of bluebell-coloured flames that crackled merrily in her hand without singing her skin.

"Ah, you are without a doubt the best friend I've ever had," Rhona sighed, holding her hands out to the comfortably-hot flames that made everything glow around them.

"Can you hear something?" Rhona asked, after a few minutes had passed.

"Oh, _finally_! I've been hoping for years I wasn't the only one who heard voices!" Harriet sighed in relief. Rhona gave her a look, and Harriet smirked.

"No, I mean—" But Harriet heard it too; it was as though an immense vacuum cleaner was sucking along the bottom of a riverbed.

"The lake!" yelled Lee Jordan. "Look at the lake!"

Standing as they were at the top of the lawns overlooking the rest of the grounds, everyone had a clear view of the black, mirror-smooth lake. Only it wasn't smooth any more—something was disturbing the water from deep in the centre of the lake; enormous bubbles formed on the surface, waves washed up on the muddy, sandy bank—and out of the very midst of the churning surf, where a whirlpool had suddenly appeared, a long, black pole slowly began to rise…and then Harriet saw the rigging.

"It's a _mast_," Harriet gasped softly. She'd seen Daisy's favourite film—_Pirates of the Caribbean_—several times over the summer, and she recognised that it was a very old-fashioned ship that rose magnificently out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It was strangely skeletal—_The Black Pearl_, Harriet thought, grinning to herself: _Wonder where Captain Jack is!_—as though it was a resurrected wreck; dim, misty lights glowed in the small portholes, looking like ghostly eyes. Harriet was reminded of Aragog.

Bobbing on the turbulent water, and with a great sloshing noise, the ship began to glide noiselessly towards the bank: there was a splash of an anchor (several people whispered about whether the giant squid would appreciate being concussed by it) and a thud of a gangplank being lowered onto the bank.

Harriet could see the heavy silhouettes of the people disembarking—they all seemed to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle…as they drew nearer, however, Harriet realised they only looked bulky because they were wearing magnificent glossy, heavy fur cloaks. The man who led them, taller and slenderer than the others, wore furs of a different kind, sleek and silver.

"Dumbledore!" he called heartily, walking up the slope with his arms thrown out as if to encompass the waiting crowd with them. "How are you, dear fellow, how are you?" Karkaroff's voice was fruity, unctuous, and heavily accented.

"Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff," Dumbledore smiled. Karkaroff reached him and Harriet saw in the lights of the castle that Karkaroff had a white beard ending with a little curl that didn't somehow mask his rather weak chin, and sleek white hair, and he grasped Dumbledore's hand with both of his own.

Harriet noticed the students gathering around him; one of them was even taller than Karkaroff, almost a whole head taller, with broad shoulders and very familiar dimples.

"Hey, Rhona, it's your _friend_," she whispered to Rhona, nudging her and pointing out the boy. Rhona stared.

"It _is_ him!" she whispered, staring. "I thought he was _German_!"

"No, he told me he's Russian," Harriet whispered excitedly, grinning.

"Dear old Hogwarts," Karkaroff said, smiling; Harriet noticed his teeth were rather yellow, and his smile did not extend to his eyes, which were small, cold and shrewd.

"He's the Death Eater?" Rhona breathed in Harriet's ear; she nodded. "Looks like a right smarmy git, like Malfoy's dad."

"Old chums," Harriet murmured.

"How good it is to be here, how good…Viktoria, come along, into the warmth…you don't mind, Dumbledore? Viktoria has a slight head-cold…"

Karkaroff beckoned to one of the female students, all of whom had been staring avidly, amorously, up at the magnificent castle. As the girl strode forward towards Karkaroff, Harriet caught sight of her features as the light from the Entrance Hall splashed across her face; it illuminated the heavily-lidded eyes, the hollow cheeks, and the once-broken nose. She didn't need Rhona pinching her arm so hard in excitement, or the excited hiss in her ear to recognise the girl.

"Harriet, it's _Krum_!"

The Durmstrang students made their way up to the Entrance Hall: they walked slowly, most of them still craning their necks, the better to see the castle's many turrets and towers. Harriet scanned the faces of the students; other than the boy from the Quidditch World Cup, and obviously Viktoria Krum, she didn't recognise anyone.

"I can't believe this!" Rhona was whispering. "I really don't _believe_ this! Krum, Harriet, _Viktoria Krum_."

"For heaven's sake, Rhona, she's only a Quidditch player," Hermes rolled his eyes, as they made their way back inside following their guests.

"_Only a Quidditch player_?" Rhona gasped, mortified. "_Hermes_, she's the best Seeker _in the world_. I had _no_ idea she was still at school."

Several sixth-year boys were frantically searching their pockets; "Oh, I don't _believe_ this! Not a quill on me!" "Buggar, and I left my things upstairs!"

"Honestly," Hermes rolled his eyes again, stalking past them into the Great Hall.

"Well, _I'm_ getting her autograph if I can," Rhona declared, as they passed the boys, now fighting over a stub of pencil one of the boys had found. "You haven't got a quill, have you, Harriet?"

"Why would you want _her_ autograph for?" Hermes sighed. "You're best friends with _Harriet Potter_. If anyone's the bigger celebrity—for something that actually _matters_—it's her."

"Quidditch is cooler than having your parents slaughtered to save you, though," Harriet said, craning her neck to see over the crowd as they made their way to the Gryffindor table. "Hey, come on," she whispered, tugging on Rhona's sleeve. "They haven't sat down yet—let's go say hello to your _friend_."

* * *

Leaping through the crowd, it was easy to tell where Valentin Romanov was, because he was the tallest boy in the Hall. The Durmstrang students were all still gathered around the door, unsure where to go: a cluster of blue showed the Beauxbatons students had already chosen to sit down at the Ravenclaw table—"because the colours don't clash with their robes," Harriet remarked tartly, and they broke through the ranks of the besotted sixth year boys. "Just _don't_ make a fuss of seeing her, alright?"

"Me? Fuss?"

"Yeah, _you_, fuss," Harriet said. "Don't embarrass yourself."

Rhona gaped at her, as if wondering how on earth Harriet could _possibly_ think she would embarrass herself; as they neared the Durmstrang students, she looked as if all capability of speech had left her.

"Valentin?" Harriet said, edging closer to the tallest boy in the room. He was very big, very scary-looking, and very sweet. He scanned his eyes over her and Rhona and recognition sparked; his dimples winked beautifully as he grinned. "Hello."

"Harriet—Rhona," he said, smiling; his voice was deep and warm, and his smile very lovely. If only Harriet didn't come up to his hip! "I vas hoping to see you again."

"You were?" Rhona beamed: She liked the look of him too, even if he didn't wear thin powder-blue robes.

"I knew you vere students here; that handsome boy, Cedric, said so this summer," he smiled, and he straightened and gave them both a bow as he took their hands in turn. "You are cold," he said to Harriet, frowning; Harriet had noticed her hands were cold too; no sooner had she noticed this than Valentin had stripped his heavy furs off and draped them around her shoulders, smiling. Harriet grinned, threading her arms into the sleeves, and tucked her chin over the collar.

"Thanks," she beamed. "We were wondering," she said, indicating Rhona, "whether you wanted to sit with us." She glanced over the other faces and smiled welcomingly. Valentin turned to his classmates and said something in a thick, deep accent: they all made noises of consent.

"Ve vould be honoured," he smiled, speaking for the rest of his classmates: Harriet beamed and she and Rhona led the way to the Gryffindor table. A large space had been made for them around Hermes: Valentin sat down beside Rhona, and Fred and George Weasley both shared the same exact expression of shock as someone clambered onto the bench beside Harriet: on her right sat one of the Durmstrang boys, with Valentin sitting on his other side, and on her left sat _Viktoria Krum_. Two Durmstrang girls and another boy sat opposite her; each of them stripped off their furs and revealed rather magnificent blood-red robes stitched with the Durmstrang crest—two golden lions and an eagle—on their left breast.

Harriet had already passed Valentin his furs and he was doing the honours of introducing everyone; "Irina Vasilievna, Raisa Mikailevna, Svetlana Sergeyevna," the last two sat opposite Harriet, and smiled, "Elizaveta Nicholaevna, and Viktoria Krum," he said, indicating each girl as he introduced them, "und Sasha Nicholaevich," who sat beside Raisa, "Mikhail Vladmirov, Aleksey Mikhailov, Fyodor Poliakoff, and Dmitry Demidov," who sat beside Harriet on her right-hand-side.

Several of the Durmstrang boys were very good-looking, tall dark and handsome, and the girls were quite strikingly lovely, with dark hair and curiously light eyes and warmer-coloured skin. They all smiled, perhaps glad that they had found some friendly people in a strange new place: Harriet introduced the people sitting closest—Seamus, Dean, Fred and George, Lavender and Parvati, Angelina Johnson, Hermes, and Norah.

She didn't mean to, but Viktoria Krum remained so quiet that Harriet almost forgot she was sitting next to her. But glancing at her as the professors glided up to the staff table, Harriet noticed she looked almost relieved; she was taking in the Great Hall, the ceiling—

"It's bewitched, to look like the sky above," Rhona said, when Valentin remarked on it, drawing the attention of the Durmstrang students upwards; Harriet glanced at Hermes, who had barely opened his mouth to address Valentin's curiosity; nobody _ever_ beat him to tell anyone an interesting fact memorised from _Hogwarts: A History_.

The Beauxbatons students—three of whom still shrouded their features with shawls ("Honestly, it's not _that_ cold!" Hermes snapped waspishly)—sprang out of their seats as soon as Madame Maxime entered the Hall, and though several Hogwarts students laughed at their decorum, they did not seat themselves until Madame Maxime had taken her seat on Dumbledore's left side. Dumbledore remained standing, his arms spread wide, beaming, and silence fell in the Hall.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and—most particularly—guests," Dumbledore beamed at the foreign students, and several people applauded them politely (most craning to get a better look at Viktoria Krum, who was staring at Dumbledore with great admiration in her dark eyes). "I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable."

One of the Beauxbatons boys clutching a muffler around his head gave what was unmistakably a derisive laugh: several of the Durmstrang students glared over at him, and one of the girls smiled at Hermes as he hissed something in carrying French to the boy, who glanced over from the Ravenclaw table, his large navy eyes widening, affronted.

"The Tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling as he glanced at the Gryffindor table—in particular Hermes, who was still glowering at the Beauxbatons girl, as if wondering how she could _dare_ insult the oldest magical establishment in Europe and Russia. "I now invite you all to eat, drink and make yourselves at home!"

"Aah!" Harriet sighed; catching Rhona's eye. The table filled with food, which surprised the Durmstrang students enough to make some of them laugh in surprise: the feasts were always the best meals, and for this first feast to celebrate the arrival of foreign students, the house-elves down in the kitchens had pulled out all the stops—besides the usual chops and steaks and sausage and bacon and all manner of potatoes and vegetables, there were a number of dishes that Harriet had never seen before. Along with a couple of her favourite sausages and crispy golden roast-potatoes, she piled onto her plate everything that looked foreign—things that looked like dumplings filled with mashed potatoes mixed with cheese and fried onions, which Raisa called 'pierogi', schnitzel, and a French dish Hermes called 'Tartiflette', vegetable ratatouille and filet steak.

"How much d'you bet me to eat this?" Fred grinned over at Harriet; he held out a platter of what were unmistakably _snails_.

"Nothing!" Harriet laughed, passing the platter of pierogi to Viktoria Krum: "You'll eat them anyway!"

"True," Fred said, and several of the Durmstrang boys laughed as Fred dumped a spoonful of escargot onto his plate, spearing each snail with his fork and eating them, frowning thoughtfully.

"Ugh! You realise nobody in her right mind's ever going to kiss you now!" Rhona laughed, "Not after they've seen what you just _ate_!"

"Excuse me, are you wanting ze bouillabaisse?" someone asked in a breezy voice, and the twins both choked on their escargot as they jumped. It was a Beauxbatons boy, come to examine the spread of foreign dishes in front of them.

"You have it," Hermes said coldly, frowning up at the boy: it was the one who had laughed during Dumbledore's speech. Without his muffler, he was revealed to have immaculate straight, silvery-blonde hair and large navy-blue eyes, fair skin that glowed strangely and he was revealed to have very white, even teeth.

He was an _angel_. Harriet—and most of the girls, actually—gaped. Angelina thumped George on the back to clear his windpipe, though dazedly, staring at the boy. Rhona stared lovingly.

"You 'ave finished wiz it?"

"Yeah," Rhona sighed, resting an elbow on the table and cradling her head in her hand, gazing amorously at the boy. "It was _excellent_."

The boy picked up the dish, sweeping his overlarge blue eyes over the Durmstrang students (Harriet reckoned he was weighing them up, as he lingered on Valentin particularly, to see who the competition would be from Durmstrang) and carefully carried it away to the Ravenclaw table.

"He's a _Veela_!" Rhona moaned longingly, and the Durmstrang girls and Harriet glanced over their shoulders to watch the way his silk robes _swished_ over his bum.

"Rhona, there is no such thing as _male_ Veela," Hermes said tartly, snapping his fingers in front of Harriet; she jumped and shook her head dazedly. "He's probably just put one too many Bedazzling Bewitchments on himself!"

"That isn't a normal _boy_," Rhona breathed.

"Hey! What are we, grindylows?" Dean said indignantly, and several of the Durmstrang girls laughed; this sound seemed to pull Rhona back to reality and she grinned embarrassedly and applied herself to Valentin.

"Hey, look who's just arrived," Hermes said, jabbing his thumb at the staff table.

"Is that _Bagman_?" Fred and George asked, honing in with very shrewd expressions on the man sitting beside Karkaroff.

"And Mr _Crouch_," Hermes snarled, throwing out his chest so that his S.P.E.W. badge gleamed upon it.

"What're they doing here?" Rhona asked curiously.

"Well, they organised the Tournament, didn't they?" Hermes said, "I suppose they want to watch it start."

"Ugh, I don't think I could eat another bite," Harriet sighed, not really caring why Bagman and Crouch were here; the first course melted away, and a moment later, the Durmstrang students gasped delightedly as the desserts materialised on the glimmering golden plates. "Pudding!"

She grinned, diving for the assortment of rich-looking desserts. Several of the Durmstrang students laughed at her as Harriet helped herself to what Sasha Nicholaevich called 'baklava' and several delicious French desserts, little cakes and pastries, and Hermes had to fend Svetlana, who appeared to like the look of him and kept smiling at him, away from the cheese platter: Harriet helped herself to Tarte Tatin and gateaux and offered Viktoria Krum the platter of piping-hot fried donut-type batter served with a hot forest-fruits compote and dusted with icing-sugar, and Viktoria smiled softly at Harriet before accepting. Harriet tried the baklava and a crêpe served with lemon juice and sugar, and a slice of Garash cake, which Viktoria said quietly to Harriet was a Bulgarian chocolate-cake, and one of her favourite desserts that her mother made at home in Bulgaria.

Once everyone appeared to have eaten their fill (Harriet feeling very warm and sleepy, _very_ contented next to Dmitry, smiling at Aleksey who had a very sharp, _English_ sense of humour and had her and Rhona clutching their stomachs laughing so hard) the morsels remaining on the golden plates disappeared, leaving them clean and glimmering in the light of thousands of candles: the Durmstrang lot looked very impressed, the Beauxbatons set, not so much. Dumbledore stood, and a pleasant sort of tension filled the room.

"The moment has come," Dumbledore smiled around at the sea of intent, upturned faces. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin."

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**A.N.**: Please review!


	42. The Goblet of Fire

**A.N.**: PLEASE REVIEW!!!

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**The Goblet of Fire**

"I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket," Dumbledore said, "just to clarify the procedure we shall be following this year. First, allow me to introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Co-Operation, and Mr Ludovic Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports." It wasn't difficult to guess who the loud round of applause was for: perhaps his fame as Beater for the Wimbourne Wasps and for England, or simply because he looked so much more likable, but Mr Bagman grinned and waved genially.

"Mr Bagman and Mr Crouch have been working tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament," Dumbledore smiled, "and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime on the panel of judges for the Tournament…The casket then, if you please, Mr Filch."

Mr Filch, previously unnoticed, approached Dumbledore, carrying a magnificent, extremely old, jewel-encrusted casket.

"The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined and approved by Mr Crouch and Mr Bagman," Dumbledore said, as Filch placed the casket carefully on the table before Dumbledore, "and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways…their magical prowess, their daring—their powers of deduction—and, of course, their ability to cope with danger."

At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing: Harriet glanced around, flitting her eyes over the Durmstrang students, the ones from Beauxbatons, and the few Hogwarts students rumoured to be thinking of putting their names in for the Tournament: Cedric was watching Dumbledore particularly attentively.

"As you know, the three champions, one representative from each of the participating schools, will be marked on how efficiently they perform in each task, and the champion with the highest total points after the three tasks will be awarded the Triwizard Cup. The champions of Beauxbatons, Durmstrang and Hogwarts, shall be chosen by an impartial selector…the Goblet of Fire."

Dumbledore tapped his spindly wand on the top of the casket three times; the lid creaked open slowly: Dumbledore reached inside and withdrew a roughly-hewn wooden cup. It might've been completely unremarkable save for the dancing, blue-white flames dancing inside it. Dumbledore closed the casket and carefully placed the Goblet on top of it.

"Anybody wishing to submit themselves as champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment, and drop it into the Goblet," Dumbledore said clearly, and Fred and George exchanged a glance and scoffed gently. "Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the Goblet will return the three names of those students judged worthiest to represent their schools. The Goblet will be placed in the Entrance Hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.

"To ensure no underage students yield to temptation," Dumbledore said, and his eyes twinkled as he glanced particularly at the Weasley twins, "I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire, which will prevent anybody under the age of seventeen from putting their name forth.

"Finally, I wish to impress on you hoping to compete in this Tournament the seriousness of entering one's name—the Tournament is not to be entered into lightly: Once a champion has been selected, he or she is obliged by a binding magical contract to see the Tournament through to the end. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are whole-heartedly prepared to take part, before putting your name forward.

"Now, bed-time. Off you trot!"

"An _Age Line_? That's _it_?" Fred laughed incredulously.

"A few drops of an Aging Potion and we'd be _set_!" George laughed.

"Once your name's in the Goblet, you're laughing!" Fred smirked. "How about it, Harriet? You'll try, won't you?" Harriet glanced around at the Durmstrang students, who were all murmuring amongst themselves in their native language, and realised how much _older_ than her they were.

"No, thanks," Harriet smiled, laughing softly. "I don't stand a chance against this lot," she smiled at Aleksey, who grinned and turned back to Mikhail and Elizaveta.

"Vell, ve had better find Professor Karkaroff," sighed Dmitry, pulling himself out of his seat and donning his furs: Karkaroff made his way over to them, in his sleek silver furs, and Harriet, Rhona and Hermes scrambled out of their seats as the others stood, tugging on their cloaks. "Ve do not know vere ve are to sleep."

"Ah, you've made new friends already, Romanov," said a fruity, unctuous voice, and Professor Karkaroff swept up to them. "Viktoria, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough?"

"Harriet took care of me, Professor," Viktoria Krum said to her headmaster, indicating Harriet with a nod as she pulled on her furs; several of the Durmstrang students smiled conspiratorially and exchanged smiling whispers as Karkaroff nodded carelessly at Harriet: Then he froze.

Harriet was used to what happened next. Karkaroff's cold, shrewd eyes swept over Harriet's face, memorising her features, widening as they took in the thin, lightening-bolt scar she usually hid behind her fringe, but which was pulled into her plaits.

"Yeah, that's Harriet Potter," someone growled, as Harriet flushed, and she glanced over Karkaroff's shoulder as he whirled around: a disgusting look of mingled fury and fear twisted Karkaroff's face as he stared at Mad-Eye Moody, who stood leaning heavily on his staff, both eyes fixed with undisguised hatred on Karkaroff.

"You!"

"_Me_," Moody said grimly. "And unless you've got something to say to Potter, tell your students where they're sleeping, Karkaroff, and move. The Gryffindors would like to get to bed, you see." Behind him, half the Gryffindor students stood waiting to pass them by. His eyes cold as ice, Karkaroff turned his back on Moody:

"Professor Dumbledore has arranged for you to have sleeping quarters in the Gryffindor tower," Karkaroff said coldly, glaring around at his students. "Perhaps your new _friends_ can escort you up to bed." With that, he swept off; whispers carried through the Gryffindor students.

"You're to sleep in our dormitories?" Rhona said, raising her eyebrows in surprise. "Well that's cool. Come on—I'll show you—" Valentin offered her his arm and together they led the column of Gryffindors down the Great Hall. The twins each claimed one of the Durmstrang girls and Harriet and Hermes stayed behind, just in case any of the Durmstrangs took an ill-advised detour into Peeves' path.

"They're a nice lot, aren't they," Hermes said happily, escorting Harriet arm-in-arm down the Hall to the doors. "The Durmstrang students?"

"A lot less snobbish than the Beauxbatons ones," Harriet said quietly, glancing at the powder-blue robes of the Beauxbatons students, who all stood at attention while Professor Dumbledore bid Madame Maxime goodnight, kissing her hand and smiling, with their noses in the air as the Hogwarts students filtered past them.

"Snobs," Hermes said loftily, as they strode past, but a second later they had to fall back: Madame Maxime had moved to the doors of the Great Hall at the same time as them, and Hermes fell back respectfully.

"Thank you," Madame Maxime rumbled richly, and then she, too, froze as she cast Harriet a second glance. She straightened up, her students peering around her curiously. "But—but Dumbly-dorr, zis is certainly Leelee's leetle _fille_."

"Who's what?"

"Yes, this is Lily's little girl," Dumbledore smiled at Harriet. Harriet glanced up at Madame Maxime.

"You knew my mother?" she said, astounded. How Madame Maxime could have recognised any of Lily Evans in Harriet's face, she didn't know.

"But of _course_," Madame Maxime rumbled, her magnificent opals glittering beautifully as she waved her hand elegantly.

"_How_?"

"While Lily was at school, she entered into a Charms Contest," Dumbledore beamed at Harriet. "She studied at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic for a term during her sixth year. The last two contenders in the competition were your mother and one of Madame Maxime's esteemed pupils."

"Ah, but Leelee was _très charmant_," Madame Maxime beamed at Harriet, "_et magnifiquement belle_." Only four words registered to Harriet. The students gathered behind Madame Maxime were all whispering amongst each other; several of the boys were examining Harriet's face with apparent interest, and two of the Veela-boy's female friends were babbling away in rapid French to her as he raked her eyes over Harriet's forehead.

"'Arriet _Potter_," one of the boys whispered covetously, staring at her.

"_Qui a gagné le concours?_" Hermes asked, and Harriet turned to look at him, staring. Madame Maxime, however, chuckled deeply, beaming at Hermes.

"The _charmant_ Leelee, of course," Madame Maxime purred. "Ah, but you 'ave taught zem _Français_, Dumbly-Dorr." She gave Hermes an admiring look.

"No, indeed, Madame Maxime," Dumbledore smiled. "I cannot claim that I taught him such superb French; however I do know that Hermes summers in the Dordogne annually." Undeterred by finding nobody in Hogwarts knew her native tongue, Madame Maxime beamed at Hermes, as if very pleased with him.

"Adieu, Dumbly-dorr," Madame Maxime purred, and she offered her hand again to Dumbledore. "Au revoir, Monsieur 'Er-_mez_, Mademoiselle Potter."

"Au revoir," Harriet and Hermes echoed; several of the Beauxbatons—the Veela boy not included—cooed goodbyes to Harriet as Madame Maxime swept out of the Great Hall.

"Can't resist, can you 'Er_-mez_?" Harriet grinned at Hermes, as they dashed up the sweeping marble staircase to catch up with the rich red robes of the Durmstrang students; Hermes rolled his eyes.

"What do you mean?" he asked, as Harriet detached herself from him so she didn't end up walking into the wall as they turned a corner.

"Speaking French like that in front of her," Harriet laughed. "You loved showing off."

"I did not—I just wanted to warn the Beauxbatons lot that _I'll_ be able to tell you exactly what they're saying about you, Harriet," he smirked at her, and Rhona snickered.

"What did Maxime say about my mum?" Harriet asked curiously. "You know, _tres charmant _and all that?"

"She said…she said Lily was very charming, and magnificently beautiful," Hermes smiled warmly at Harriet. Harriet skipped upstairs, though she couldn't help thinking: She had never known Lily had spoken French, or that she had studied abroad, or that she was excellent at Charms.

* * *

Rhona had waited for them to join them before admitting them into the common-room; the Durmstrang students took off their heavy furs immediately upon entering the common room: the fire always being lit, the room was toasty and comfortable, filled with excited students, who gasped and whispered as the Durmstrang lot entered the room. The Durmstrangs were gazing around the room with warm smiles and glittering eyes, and Dmitry and Sasha had moved to the roaring fire in the grate, warming their hands and chuckling in deep Russian.

"Are you having lessons with us, then?" Harriet asked Irina, who, looking around at the many portraits on the walls, nodded.

"Professor Karkaroff has agreed ve are to have study vith the other students of our age," she said. "But he is to instruct us in the Dark Arts," she growled, looking very dangerous.

"So it's true? Durmstrang really _do_ teach you the Dark Arts?" Hermes spoke up, eyebrows raised.

"Not because ve vish to learn them," Aleksey said, sighing heavily. "It is Professor Karkaroff's vill that ve learn vat he has to teach. Other headmasters have been dismissed for teaching such things as he does."

"Ve should not speak ill of our High Master," Elizaveta said quietly. "Ve vill give our hosts the wrong impression."

"Oh, we already know what _Karkaroff_ is," Rhona said, frowning deeply, and the Durmstrang students glanced among themselves.

"How do you know?"

"Harriet," Rhona said, nodding at her. Harriet shrugged.

"My godfather was in Azkaban for twelve years," Harriet said, glancing around at the Durmstrang students. "He saw Karkaroff there…But you sat with us at the Gryffindor table, and not the Slytherin table, so that says something about you all."

"Vat does it say?" Raisa asked interestedly.

"Well, there's not a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin," Harriet said quietly, but then she thought of Regulus: he had reformed, hadn't he. "Dumbledore himself was in Gryffindor, when he was a student here."

"Ve heard that," Sasha smiled. "He is a…a _hero_ of Viktoria's."

"Really?" Rhona grinned at Viktoria Krum, who was standing over by the fire, but listening into their conversation: Rhona's idol had long been Dumbledore, though at times she thought him mad.

"He defeated Grindelvald—who murdered my grandfather," Viktoria said darkly, and she glanced at Harriet. "He saved many more families from destruction—and avenged my grandfather. For that my family is eternally grateful to Dumbledore."

"Viktoria vishes she had come to Hogvarts," Aleksey chuckled softly, smiling with something close to admiration at Viktoria.

"This is a _very_ comfortable room," Svetlana said, squirming luxuriously in a squashy armchair. "Ve have no common area like this at Durmstrang."

"What's it like, Durmstrang?" Hermes asked eagerly.

"Vell—ve have a castle, also," Raisa spoke up.

"But not as large as this, nor as comfortable, I am thinking," Viktoria said, and her companions nodded in agreement, smiling around the room; one of the second years put the Wizarding Wireless on to _Nightfall with the Non-Magical_. "Ve have only four floors, not seven, and fires are lit only for magical purposes, though it is always very much colder than Hogwarts."

"The grounds of Durmstrang are larger even than these," Sasha said, smiling, "though in vinter ve are not enjoying them. But, in the summer, we are flying every day, over the lakes and mountains."

"How come you don't have fires lit, if it's so cold?" Hermes frowned.

"Oh, vell, ve have other ways of staying varm," Aleksey smirked luxuriously, his eyes glowing in the light of the fire, slipping his strong arms around Irina's waist, hugging her to his front. Fred, George and the girls laughed, Hermes just smiled, shaking his head.

Irina said something in Russian to Aleksey and slapped him—Harriet thought he would get angry, but he just laughed heartily with his friends as he rubbed his cheek, and Irina sauntered over to Elizaveta, who was shaking her head, smiling.

"He likes to chase her," Sasha whispered to Harriet, who grinned at him, listening intently as she sat perched on the arm of the sofa beside Valentin, who was talking with Rhona. "She pretends she does not like the attention, but she has been playing this game for years."

"Hey, Harriet, where's Toby?" Dean called over the noise, and Harriet glanced around for Padfoot.

"Oh! I don't know!" Harriet admitted, frowning. "I haven't seen him in a while." She exchanged a glance with Hermes, who was frowning as he glanced around the common room, looking anxious.

"Vould it be alright if you showed us to the dormitories?" Svetlana asked quietly, glancing at Harriet. "Ve have come a long way."

"Oh, right!" Harriet grinned, jumping up: "Hermes, Fred, George, why don't you show the boys their room."

"Will do," Fred and George grinned.

"Goodnight, Harriet," said Sasha, giving her a short bow and smiling at her: each of the boys bowed to the girls they had been talking to, before following the twins up the boys' staircase: Harriet and Rhona led the girls (who had swept into a courteous curtsey to the boys) upstairs, and Harriet thought it appropriate to tell Irina about the charm placed on the girls' staircase, so no boys could get up to the rooms, thinking of Aleksey. The Durmstrang dormitory had been created one room above Harriet and Rhona's dormitory, and the girls each dipped courteously before heading off to their room.

* * *

"Did you see the really _pretty_ Beauxbatons boy?" Rhona asked, when they'd shut their dormitory door—the other girls were already in bed, not yet asleep, but talking excitedly: Norah was rereading the book Moody had given her.

"Which _one_?" Harriet laughed.

"The one with the really lovely eyelashes," Rhona sighed, tugging her socks off with a glassy-eyed expression.

"You'll have to point him out to me tomorrow," Harriet said, tugging off her robes.

"Oh, I will," Rhona grinned lazily, tugging on her pyjamas.

"They'd make a really good calendar, wouldn't they—the Durmstrang boys," Harriet said thoughtfully. "Tall, dark and handsome."

"Mm—," Rhona laughed, licking her lips, "Especially _Valentin_."

"They're a lot nicer than I thought they'd be," Norah spoke up happily from behind her book, smiling. "That one boy—Dmitry, he's _lovely_. He says his mother has a wonderful greenhouse at home; he's going to help me with my _Mimbulus_ _Mimbletonia_ cuttings."

"Well _I_ like the look of the Beauxbatons boys," said Lavender, examining her reflection in a little hand-mirror. "Did you see that silver-blonde one? There's something about the French…they're so _romantic_."

"Yes, but are they sincere?" Harriet said, smirking; Parvati scoffed in amusement.

"It'd be great, wouldn't it," Rhona sighed, as they sank into their heated beds a few minutes later.

"What would?"

"Being Hogwarts champion," Rhona smiled to herself.

"S'pose," Harriet shrugged, tugging her socks off. "Not really that fussed, if you ask me."

"Come off it!"

"I have eternal glory enough," Harriet sighed, settling deep under her duvet.

"S'pose that's true," Rhona said thoughtfully, and they both drifted off to sleep on very full stomachs.

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**A.N.**: PLEASE REVIEW!

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	43. International Magical CoOperation

**A.N.**: Please review!

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**International Magical Co-Operation: To Make _Friends_**

The next morning being Saturday, most students would have chosen to stay in bed later than usual: Harriet, Rhona and Hermes weren't the only ones to make their way downstairs for breakfast early: Rumour was it the Durmstrang lot had already gone down. But only Harriet wore a black t-shirt over her long-sleeved black top with the words 'TEAM CEDRIC' printed on her chest in yellow block lettering, which she had made Hermes add to her t-shirt. And she had tied her hair into two tousled, messy plaits, and had made Hermes change her flower headband yellow.

"Hi Cedric," she beamed, as she, Rhona and Hermes stepped down into the Entrance Hall at the same time Cedric and his friends made their way out of the door beside the marble staircase. He grinned, flicking his eyes over Harriet's t-shirt, and laughed. "Have you put your name in yet?"

"Not yet," Cedric smiled, blushing embarrassedly as whispers spread through the Entrance Hall like wildfire, and lifted his right hand, in which he held a neatly-cut piece of parchment with his name written on it.

"Like the t-shirt?" Harriet asked, grinning, and Cedric laughed, nodding.

"Yeah…thanks," he smiled beautifully, and several of the girls beamed at Harriet: a Gryffindor supporting one of their own, that wasn't heard of outside Hufflepuff-Slytherin Quidditch matches. Several of the girls, Harriet noticed, had painted Cs on their cheeks, and a few had tiny black badgers stamped just below their eyes on their cheekbones.

"Go on, Ced!"

"Put it in!" one of his friends called, and Cedric grinned embarrassedly, as his friends shoved him towards the Goblet of Fire, which rested on the three-legged stool the Sorting Hat usually occupied, set inside a thin golden line ten feet in diameter around the stool. The Hall hushed in anticipation and Harriet watched Cedric lick his lips nervously, walk up to the Goblet of Fire and place his parchment into the cup; the blue-white flames flared crimson for a second and applause filled the Hall.

"Hey, Harriet," spoke up one of Cedric's groupies, a very pretty blonde girl with enormous blue eyes, "d'you want one?" She indicated the tiny badger on her cheekbone. Harriet grinned and nodded. "Aren't you supporting any Gryffindor champion?"

"Don't know any who've put their names in," Harriet shrugged. "Besides, Cedric's definitely worthy of representing us." The girl grinned, exchanging glances with her friends, and off a little sheet of glossy parchment, she indicated a tiny black badger with her wand, and it separated from the parchment, zooming to Harriet's cheekbone, where she shivered at its touch and the girl smiled.

"What're you like," Hermes sighed, smiling, as he slung his arm around Harriet's shoulders and led her away from the staircase.

"What?" Harriet asked, but Hermes just chuckled, smiling. "Hey, look!"

"Just done it!" Fred grinned, whispering triumphantly. "Just taken it."

"Taken what?"

"The Aging Potion, dungbrains," Fred rolled his eyes.

"One drop each," George grinned, rubbing his hands together, as if ready to start counting the thousand galleons prize-money. "We only need to be a few months older!"

"It's not going to work," Hermes said shortly.

"Oh yeah? Why's that Granger?"

"Dumbledore drew the Age Line _himself_," Hermes said, shaking his head. "And a genius like Dumbledore couldn't _possibly_ be fooled by a dodge as pathetically dim-witted as an _Aging_ _Potion_."

"We'll see," Fred smirked. "Ready George?"

"Ready Fred," George grinned. Together, they jumped over the Age Line. For a split-second, Harriet thought it had worked. Next moment, with the force of being hurtled by a giant catapult, and with a loud sizzling sound, the twins were thrown out of the golden circle, landing painfully in a heap ten feet away.

To add insult to injury, both of them sprouted identical long, white beards. Harriet, who had brought her camera down from her dormitory, snapped a photograph of the two boys staring at each other, momentarily shocked, then they, too, joined the tumultuous laughter that ran throughout the Entrance Hall.

"I did warn you," someone chuckled, and everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore strolling out of the Great Hall, looking highly amused. "I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey: She is already tending to Miss Fawcett of Ravenclaw and Mr Summers of Hufflepuff, both of whom attempted to age themselves a little, too…Though I must admit, neither of _their_ beards is anything as like as _fine_ as yours."

Accompanied by Lee Jordan, who was howling with laughter, Fred and George made their way up to the hospital wing. Harriet, Rhona and Hermes laughed softly and made their way towards the Great Hall doors: as they did so, the doors of the Entrance Hall opened and the students of Beauxbatons, in their powder-blue robes, stalked inside, straight-backed and proud.

"That's him," Rhona whispered in Harriet's ear, indicating the boy at the very front of the group; a little taller than Rhona, he had shoulder-length sandy blonde hair that shone glossily, and very pretty eyes ringed with thick, curling lashes, succulent lips and a tiny little nose. He caught Harriet's eye as Madame Maxime swept past him and smiled.

"Wow! He's _gorgeous_!" Cedric's blonde friend whispered, grinning, and Harriet nodded, watching Madame Maxime pause to smile at him as she straightened the rest of her pupils into a neat, orderly line. One by one, the pretty boy first, the Veela-boy second, ("In order of beauty", Harriet remarked to Rhona) each of the Beauxbatons students dropped into the blue-white flames a neatly-folded fan-like piece of pale-blue parchment. After each student had entered his or her name, they stood in two neat lines by the doors to the Great Hall, waiting for the last to enter. Then, waiting for Madame Maxime, they followed her into the Great Hall.

* * *

The decorations in the Hall had changed overnight: Halloween, the ceiling was decorated with swarms of live bats and hundreds of floating Jack o' lanterns, and orange streamers that wound through the air like brilliant sea-snakes. Hundreds more carved pumpkins leered from the corners. The Hall was filled, unusually for the weekend, and those who had seen inside the Entrance Hall applauded the Beauxbatons students as they passed to their seats at the Ravenclaw table. Harriet grinned and waved as several of the Durmstrang students—Aleksey, Sasha, Valentin, and Raisa—waved at them.

"Good morning," Svetlana said cheerfully, beaming.

"Hi!" Harriet grinned, sitting down beside Sasha, who had a very handsome smile waiting for her.

"Ve have just put our names in for the Tournament," Mikhail said, grinning excitedly.

"Really? Cool," Harriet grinned. "Fred and George—you remember, the twins?—they just tried to put their names in! They sprouted _beards_!" Irina and Elizaveta laughed as Fred and George bounded into the Great Hall, clean-shaven once more.

"Ooh! Fromage blanc," Hermes cooed softly as he sat down beside Harriet. He reached for the ladle set in a deep golden bowl full of white yoghurt-type stuff and doled himself a bowlful.

"What is it?"

"It's French," Hermes smiled. "Translates to 'white cheese': It's very good with sugar on, try some." Harriet did as Hermes recommended, coating the fromage blanc in her bowl with a thin crust of sugar.

"You know, I take back my previous statement; I really _do_ like having visitors here," Harriet smiled, as Sasha and Aleksey fought over the warm, buttery croissants, and Fyodor spilt Cheerios down his front as Padfoot poked his nose between him and Viktoria, glittering grey eyes focused on the platter of bacon and sausages.

"_Grim_," Irina whispered, going very pale.

"Toby, come here, stop begging," Harriet said loudly, and Padfoot barked, whining softly; Viktoria Krum took a sausage from the platter and held it out to Padfoot, who wagged his tail, mounted onto the bench on his front paws and very delicately for a dog of his monumental size, took the sausage from her. Irina glanced from Padfoot to Harriet and relaxed, smiling. Valentin stroked Padfoot rigorously and grinned.

"Powerful volf," he said, scratching Padfoot behind the ears. "He is yours, Harriet?"

"Not technically—he's Professor Dumbledore's," Harriet smiled, as Padfoot licked his chops and smiled at Viktoria. "But he likes spending time with us." Padfoot barked happily. "I haven't seen him _in a while, though_," she added, frowning at Padfoot. He barked again, and slipped under the table to sit beside her.

"Do you lot have to have lessons on the weekends?" Hermes asked interestedly.

"Usually, ve vould," Sasha said, "but Karkaroff has been coerced into allowing us time to enjoy the grounds." He grinned.

"Dumbledore?" Rhona guessed, and Harriet chuckled, helping herself to another spoonful of fromage blanc, which Harriet had to admit she liked a _lot_.

"In vinter at Durmstrang, ve have very little daylight to enjoy the grounds," Raisa said, delicately eating scrambled eggs and sausage. "Is it the same here?"

"No," Harriet smiled. "It just gets dark before dinner." Harriet _liked_ it in wintertime; everything could be made better by a warm quilt and a good book, and she loved the sound of rain against the windows while the fire blazed in the grate.

"Did you bring broomsticks with you?" Rhona asked, and Harriet swore she glanced at Viktoria Krum, who was stroking Padfoot's ears absentmindedly as she watched the post-owls soar down through the rafters.

"Yes, ve have: Karkaroff told us Hogwarts has a Qvidditch pitch," Dmitry said eagerly.

"I'll ask Fred and George if I can borrow either of their brooms; we can go and play Quidditch," Rhona grinned, just as eager as the boys. "Harriet, why don't you go and ask Madam Hooch if we can borrow a Quaffle?"

"Why do I have to ask her?" Harriet asked, halfway through a pain au chocolat.

"Because she _likes_ you," Rhona rolled her eyes. "She's still hoping you'll offer to let her ride your _Firebolt_."

"Alright, I'll go and ask her," Harriet sighed, grabbing her pain au chocolat and draining the last of her teacup. She ran up to the staff table. "Madam Hooch?" she asked politely, teetering on the balls of her feet before the amber-eyed flying teacher.

"Harriet, dear girl, what can I do for you?"

"A group of us wants to go and use the Quidditch pitch," Harriet said, indicating the Durmstrang students, who today were not wearing their red robes but casual clothing that was surprisingly light and _summery_ for the time of year. "Would it be alright if we used a set of balls?"

"Is that Viktoria _Krum_ with them?" Madam Hooch whispered to Harriet, who nodded, grinning. "I didn't get to see the Final; I had to help with the arrangements… 'Course you can use the balls! I'll leave them in the Gryffindor changing-rooms, go and get your brooms!"

"Thanks Madam Hooch!" Harriet grinned, knowing Madam Hooch would likely be sitting in the stands watching. She darted back down the Hall, chewing on the delicious chocolate-filled pastry, and beamed at the others. "She'll leave the balls in the Gryffindor changing room. D'you want to meet us out there?"

"Ve vill meet you outside the Entrance Hall," Sasha said, grinning from ear to ear, "Viktoria—" He spoke something in rapid Bulgarian (Harriet knew that the Durmstrang students spoke Russian collectively, but a few of them were from Bulgaria and the Ukraine) to Viktoria Krum, who nodded shortly. Sasha smiled; "Yes, ve vill all meet you outside."

* * *

Harriet bolted upstairs in search of her _Firebolt_: Angelina Johnson followed her, grinning; "It'll be good to play again, won't it," she beamed. "Even if it's only a friendly scrimmage."

"I've _missed_ Oliver's practices," Harriet admitted, shaking her head.

"Who'd've thought it?" Angelina tutted, shaking her head. "I never thought I'd miss going to bed with all my muscles seized."

"They were the good old days," Harriet sighed, as they strode determinedly down the seventh-floor corridor. "Wish they hadn't cancelled the Quidditch Cup just 'cos of the Tournament."

"Still, it'd be cool to be picked," Angelina grinned.

"Did you enter?"

"Just now, yeah," Angelina grinned.

"I didn't know you were seventeen already," Harriet said thoughtfully.

"I had my birthday last week," Angelina smiled; catching sight of Harriet's expression, she chuckled softly, "Don't worry—I've never exactly sent _you_ a birthday card, have I?"

They both dashed up the girls' staircase, Harriet to the very top dormitory, and both retrieved their brooms and ran back downstairs. Rhona was pleading with the twins, who had both retrieved their brooms; "Just borrow one of the school brooms, Rhona!": "But they're _crap_."

"You can borrow mine, Rhona," Angelina said, motioning to her broomstick. "I'll have to do some homework after lunch, so…"

"Oh, thanks Angelina!" Rhona grinned. Harriet glanced around; she glimpsed the curling, spun-gold hair of Svetlana glinting in the sunlight on the steps outside, and Cedric and his friends making their way out of the Great Hall.

"Hi," Harriet beamed. Cedric smiled, glancing around at the brooms.

"Going flying?"

"Yeah—we're going over to the pitch with the Durmstrang students," Harriet smiled. "If you want to come and join us…" She smiled, and Cedric grinned, his friends peering around the Entrance Hall doors to the steps, where the girls were basking in tiny-strapped tops and light, fluttery skirts, the boys all talking in low, excited voices as they looked over the grounds, seeing the six gold hoops glittering in the sun in the Quidditch pitch.

"We'll meet you out there?" Cedric suggested, and Harriet nodded as the Hufflepuffs made their way to the doorway on the right of the marble staircase.

"Hey, look," someone hissed, and Harriet yelped, hopping about, as someone kicked her sharply in the ankle. She glanced at the doors to the Great Hall and noticed the Beauxbatons students standing there, looking as if they didn't know what to do with themselves.

"Go and say hello," Hermes whispered to her.

"Why me?"

"They keep staring at you." Harriet rolled her eyes but put on a smile and shyly approached the older, much more beautiful students.

"Bonjour," she said nervously, waving slightly. Unlike Hermes, the extent of her French education at school was the first ten numbers.

"'Allo," said the very pretty boy who had entered his name first into the Goblet of Fire. Harriet noticed the blue of his robes made his pretty eyes sparkle. Harriet teetered forward and offered her hand, to shake his. The boy smiled, took her hand, but twisted it gently as he bowed, to brush his lips against the back of it. "I am Armand."

"Pleasure to meet you, Armand," Harriet said, feeling very flushed. "I'm Harriet, Harriet Potter." He smiled beautifully.

"May I introduce you to ze ozzers?" he asked, glancing at his classmates, who were all eyeing Harriet eagerly—all of them except the Veela-girl, who was examining the House hour-glasses, and the gleaming gems within. Harriet nodded, beaming.

"_Ceci est ma petite amie_—forgive me," Armand laughed softly at himself, "zis is my…how you say…girl-friend? Sabine," he introduced a very pretty brunette with dark brown eyes, who swept into an elegant curtsey, having taken Harriet's hand, and kissed Harriet on each cheek twice.

"My muzzer speaks often of Leelee Evans," she said, still holding Harriet's hand and beaming warmly, from her eyes. "She was ze Beauxbatons _adversaire_ against 'er in ze Charms tournament. Madame Maxime told us."

Harriet beamed, and Sabine took her place by Armand's side; he rested a hand on her lower back and smiled as he introduced the other girls—"Isabelle," was a _very_ pretty brunette, with light grey eyes, and a plait to her knees, bound with gold, and a very gentle voice, "Noelle," was extremely lovely, with curling auburn hair and sapphire-blue eyes.

Yolande was the loveliest of the lot. Even beside the Veela-boy, Yolande's beauty shone with warmth like the sun, which, for all his unearthly prettiness, the Veela-boy did not possess; his skin glowed like moonlight, cold. Yolande was tall, statuesque, with a slender waist and lovely curves, had glorious sun-gold curls falling to her waist, and her face was a lovely hear-shape: she had stunning violet eyes, and kissed Harriet's cheeks no less than four times each upon introduction, declaring that, "Our 'alf-bruzzer says 'e met your muzzer at Beauxbatons, zey were in ze Order of ze Phoenix togezzer; 'e is older zan Gérard and myself, you see—I am very sorry to 'ear she is gone."

Cécile, the second-to-last girl, had an extremely exotic beauty, with dark copper skin, intense hazel eyes ringed with gold, and rich, saffron-red hair, but appeared to be either very shy of strangers or just very star-struck at seeing Harriet, as Yolande had to push her forward, laughing softly, before Cécile slipped into a curtsey and kissed Harriet's cheeks.

"This is Remy," Armand said, indicating an excrutiatingly handsome boy with high, chiselled cheekbones, wonderful copper skin and glowing olive-green eyes, darker and less-noticeably green than Harriet's. "Gérard," was the boy with the gloriously curling blonde hair, who looked like a Botticelli angel, and Yolande's younger-brother, "Beauregard," had exceptionally lovely bluebell-coloured eyes and wavy golden-brown hair, "Émile," was the darkest of them all, and "Guillaume," lingered noticeably over her hand when he dipped to kiss it, longer than the others all had. Armand said something to Guillaume in rapid French that made Hermes laugh and bite his lip, glancing at the doors into the grounds; the Beauxbatons students all giggled softly too, and Guillaume flushed.

"And zis is Florent," Armand said, waving a hand airily at Florent. _Flower_, Harriet thought, and the name seemed appropriate; he _was_ uncommonly lovely. He spoke not a word to Harriet, however, but sank into a bow without taking Harriet's hand and without looking her in the face, which was—

"Very rude of him," Hermes whispered hotly, as, in a large group, he, Harriet, Rhona, the twins, Angelina, the Durmstrang students and the newly-acquainted Beauxbatons students who "'ave ze weekends to ourselves now zat we are 'ere at 'Ogwarts," made their way over to the Quidditch pitch.

"Whaddaya mean?" Harriet asked, who was carrying her _Firebolt_ like a yoke over her shoulders, happy with anticipation of flying again for the first time in several weeks.

"It's typical French custom to greet people with kisses on the cheek, or to kiss their hands like the other boys did—not to is to brush them off entirely," Hermes said, frowning over his shoulder at Florent, who was sauntering between Émile and Guillaume, who were both carrying new Cleansweeps, gabbling away in lyrical French. "You haven't done anything to him to deserve that!"

His attention was captured by Isabelle, Cécile and Yolande, who were all extremely jolly together and were clearly the best of friends, and liked his curling hair, and loved that he could speak French, and very well, if Harriet knew anything about the way he slipped seamlessly from English to French.

"_God_ they _don't_ make boys like them here at '_Ogwarts_," Rhona moaned softly, as she watched Remy and Armand laughing with Valentin and Sasha, her eyes lingering on Florent as he sidled past with Émile and Guillaume.

"They make them _gorgeous_ at Hogwarts," Harriet disagreed, glancing over her shoulder past Fleur to the doors to the Entrance Hall, where a small cluster of Hufflepuffs stood, about to make their way to follow them to the pitch.

"Oh, I forgot," Rhona rolled her eyes, glancing at Cedric, who was laughing with one of his friends, Robin Merryweather, who had very lovely light-brown curls.

* * *

They spent most of the morning, up until lunchtime, playing Quidditch, alternating brooms so everyone who didn't have their own could have a go: Harriet, Rhona and Hermes taught the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons students the Hogwarts school song, and Fred and George made Gérard, who was deceptively innocent-looking, roar with laughter over some of their _Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes_ products with Sasha and Aleksey: Raisa, Svetlana, Isabelle, Cécile and Yolande formed a cluster to teach Harriet and Rhona several useful phrases in Russian and French, and the Durmstrang boys called to Viktoria Krum, who had sat a few seats away from Hermes (who had blushed every time one of the Beauxbatons girls called him 'Er-_mez_, until finally he couldn't stand Rhona's smirks any longer) in the stands, coercing her passionately to join them on the field.

She did so, looking a little reluctant. Harriet, on her _Firebolt_ as well as Krum, flew up beside her, smiling knowingly.

"You must get very annoyed with it," she sighed.

"Vith vat?" Viktoria asked, her dark eyebrows contracting slightly: She looked slightly on-edge at being spoken to directly, by a stranger.

"Being _worshipped_ all the time," Harriet said, waving to Cedric, who stood over the crate of Quidditch balls, ready to release them for another scrimmage match, Hogwarts versus Durmstrang. She glanced at Viktoria and smiled. "I know I hate everyone staring at my scar."

"It is rather…_tiring_," Viktoria sighed. She glanced at Harriet. "You vere at the Qvidditch Vorld Cup." Harriet grinned.

"Yeah."

"I remember the two…the twins," Viktoria frowned.

"Why didn't you say hello to them, then?" Harriet asked.

"I…I do not have the…the _talent_ some have, of talking easily vith strangers," Viktoria said quietly.

"You're talking to me, aren't you?" Harriet smiled, and Viktoria's lips flitted upwards; she looked marginally lovelier when there was even a ghost of a smile on her face.

"_Are you two ready_?" Rhona shouted across the pitch; she was manning the goalposts as the Hogwarts keeper. Harriet waved, and Viktoria nodded curtly: Cedric released the balls again.

After lunch, Angelina surrendered her broom to Rhona, and they had attracted a lot of attention from the other Hogwarts students who had seen them flying from the castle. A small crowd had gathered in the stands, watching Harriet and Viktoria zoom around the pitch on their _Firebolts_, everyone shouting to each other and laughing loudly and having a very good time. When the light began to dwindle, the purple clouds gilding themselves with burning gold and red, they packed up the balls (Harriet caught the Snitch two inches off the ground after a plummeting dive that made the foreign students and Hogwarts students alike scream in fear and then applaud, though Harriet suspected Viktoria might've let her catch it, not wanting to draw attention to herself and show off) and made their way up to the castle, the ship and the carriage to get ready for the Halloween feast—and the choosing of the three champions.

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**A.N.**: Please review, and I might upload the next chapter!

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	44. The Four Champions

**A.N.**: You all know what's going to happen in this one!

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**The Four Champions**

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"You'll be supporting Diggory then," someone said, and Harriet glanced over her shoulder; a huge group of Gryffindors was making their way into the Great Hall, and behind them a sole figure clad in black made their way from the Slytherin dungeon common-room. It was Draco Malfoy, dressed as he usually was like a miniature and less-suave James Bond in smart black trousers and a suit jacket, the Malfoy insignia gleaming on his finger.

"'Course," she smiled.

"Not Johnson?" Malfoy said quietly, eyeing her up. "I watched her put _her_ name in." Harriet shrugged. "But then again, you _like_ Diggory, don't you."

"What's it to you if I do?" Harriet asked, frowning. Malfoy just shrugged, and, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle who came scuffling up from the dungeons, slipped into the Great Hall: Harriet rolled her eyes, wondering just how on earth men really _worked_, and followed in the wake of the Durmstrang students: they had changed back into their red robes this evening for such a special occasion and the Beauxbatons lot at the Ravenclaw table hadn't taken their blue robes off.

"I hope it's Angelina," Hermes said, smiling as he sat between Viktoria and Irina; Harriet sat down in the space beside Aleksey and Sasha, who made quite a comic double-act, and who were talking very fast with Fred and George, who sat opposite with Raisa, Svetlana and Elizaveta.

"Me too," Fred smiled.

"Well, we'll soon find out," George grinned eagerly, glancing at the Goblet of Fire, which had been moved in front of Dumbledore's empty seat at the staff table.

Perhaps because it was the second feast in two days, but the Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than usual—granted, having spent all day outside, Harriet was ravenous and filled up on the extravagantly-prepared food (particularly the sweets)—but like everyone else, Harriet wanted to hear who the champions would be.

At long last, the golden plates returned to their usual state of spotlessness and the level of noise in the Hall shot upwards in excitement; beside her, Aleksey and Sasha sat straight-backed, edgy with anticipation. Dumbledore rose to his feet; either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked tense and expectant. Mr Bagman was beaming and winking at various students, but Mr Crouch, Harriet noticed, looked disinterested, even _bored_.

"Well, I do believe the Goblet is almost ready to make its decisions," Dumbledore said, smiling. "I estimate it requires only a moment more." Seemingly as one, most of the Hall checked their watches. "Now, when the champions' names are called, I would ask them to please come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber where you will be receiving your first instructions."

With a great sweeping wave of his wand, every light in the Hall went out: someone squealed, "_I'm afraid of the dark_," and for a moment, the tension was broken as they all laughed. The Goblet of Fire shone brighter than anything else in the room, sparkling on Dumbledore's silver beard, almost too painfully bright to look at.

"Any second…" Valentin whispered, checking an old-fashioned gold pocket-watch on a slender chain.

The flames inside the Goblet suddenly turned brilliant scarlet: Sparks flew from it, and next second a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttering out of it—the whole room gasped. Dumbledore caught the parchment and held it at arm's length, peering down his nose through his half-moon spectacles that glinted in the flames that now flickered blue-white again.

"The champion for Durmstrang," he read, in a clear, strong voice, "will be _Viktoria Krum_!"

Harriet thought the Durmstrang lot were all very good sports; the girls hugged Viktoria and the boys all cheered louder than anyone else in the Hall—save Karkaroff, whose shout of "Bravo, Viktoria! Knew you had it in you!" could be heard even over the cheering of the Hall—clapping enthusiastically. Harriet beamed and clapped as Viktoria caught her eye before rising from the table, slouching up to Dumbledore, shaking his hand and disappeared through the next chamber.

"Ve _knew_ it vould be Viktoria," Sasha said, not in the least bit annoyed or downhearted that he hadn't been chosen, applauding still. He smiled at Harriet.

"She is bravest in our school," Raisa said, still whistling enthusiastically for her friend.

"Well, to play Quidditch in front of a hundred-thousand people, she'd _have_ to be brave," Harriet laughed, still applauding. The clapping and chatting died down. The Goblet turned red for the second time; a second piece of parchment, a perfectly round piece of parchment which had been folded into a fan previously, burst forth on a tongue of flame.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore called, "is Florent Delacour."

"It's _that _little _tarty _boy," Hermes snarled, glowering over at the Veela-boy as he sauntered from his seat at the Ravenclaw table—leaving Noelle and Cécile in tears, sobbing on their arms; Sabine was pouting in Armand's arms, and Gérard was glowering with Émile, and Remy was muttering vindictively to Guillaume.

"They're all disappointed," said Rhona, clapping for Florent politely. Harriet didn't bother.

"I'd rather have seen _Yolande_ champion of Beauxbatons," she said, glancing over where Yolande was teary-eyed next to Gérard, her younger-brother's hand resting on her slender shoulder.

"Yeah, at least _she_ has a sense of humour," Fred said. Nobody in Gryffindor or from Durmstrang liked Florent very much—he had spent all of the day wandering around the edge of the Quidditch pitch alone, not talking to anyone, resisting their urges to have him play with them. He had turned his nose up at the twins and scorned their jokes, and to do that was to make him worthy of the death-penalty in the twins' eyes, and they were already plotting revenge.

When silence fell, after Florent disappeared, it was a silence the kind they hadn't endured before—it was a silence so riddled with excitement they could practically _taste_ it. The Hogwarts champion… Harriet shivered expectantly; glancing over at Cedric, whose cheeks had hollowed in nervousness, his girl friends holding hands and crossing their fingers for luck. The Goblet of Fire burst red again, and a neatly-cut strip of parchment flittered down from the tongue of flame: Dumbledore snatched it out of the air and paused, as if relishing the impact of the drawn breath and eager expectation.

"The Hogwarts champion," he said slowly, "is Cedric Diggory!"

The Hall exploded with cheers such as Harriet had not heard since her first year, the first Leaving Feast, when she and Hermes and Rhona and Norah had helped Gryffindor beat Slytherin in the House Cup for the first time in seven years. The cheers raised the roof, and Harriet was sure those in Hogsmeade could hear the shouts and applause. Every Hufflepuff was on their feet, stomping and yelling and clapping. It was a long time after Cedric had disappeared, grinning broadly, before Dumbledore could make himself heard.

"Excellent!" he chuckled happily, arms wide, as the tumult died down. "Well, now that we have our three champions, I am sure I can count on each and every one of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every _ounce_ of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real—"

Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking; Harriet saw Professor Snape staring at the Goblet of Fire, which had turned red again. A long flame shot into the air, just as it had done before, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.

"What's going on?" Harriet whispered to Hermes, who shrugged, wide-eyed.

"There can't be _four_ champions," he gaped, shaking his head: Dumbledore took the parchment quickly, and stared at it for a very long time, before clearing his throat and glancing up, scanning the Gryffindor table.

"Harriet Potter."

* * *

Harriet blinked. Every face in the Great Hall turned to her—her, sitting there in her TEAM CEDRIC t-shirt, her yellow headband, the badger on her cheek—because her name had come out of the Goblet of Fire…No. Dumbledore must've made a mistake. She'd heard incorrectly.

The sound of buzzing, of angry bees, started to fill the Great Hall: Some students were standing up to get a better look at her. She sat, frozen, beside Aleksey and Sasha, who sat goggling at her disbelievingly. Harriet stared at Hermes opposite.

"I didn't put my name in!" she blurted breathlessly, feeling something constricting her chest, a brick wedging between her ribcage. Hermes and the twins, and the others, all just stared blankly back at her. Beyond them, the Gryffindors, the other Durmstrang students, all gaped open-mouthed at her. She glanced up at Dumbledore, imploring him to stop the joke: this wasn't funny: Professors McGonagall and Snape were talking to him in low voices: he nodded once and cleared his throat.

"Harriet Potter," he said again, clearly; the noise stopped immediately. He scanned the Gryffindor table and sought her out. "Harriet, up here, if you please."

Harriet was frozen where she was.

"Harriet—for goodness' sake!" Hermes hissed across the table. Aleksey and Sasha both got out of their seats and lifted her out of hers: one of them gave her a little push and she stumbled. She caught sight of Padfoot, staring at her, his eyes unusually dead-looking for when he was a dog, and after what seemed to be a very long time indeed, Harriet stood before the three professors. Dumbledore handed Harriet the slip of parchment—she was half-expecting it not to be her own handwriting upon it. But it _was_. It was _her_ handwriting, the same way she scrolled her r's and looped her t's together, and the stab of her quill to dot the 'i' in her name.

"I…I didn't," she managed to whisper, staring from the parchment to the professors.

"Through you go, please, Harriet," Dumbledore said, indicating the door through which Viktoria, Florent Delacour and Cedric had disappeared.

"But…"

"Go on, dear," Professor McGonagall said quietly, looking more anxious than Harriet had ever seen her. Harriet tried to say "But I don't want to…" but it somehow got stuck in her throat as Professor Snape gave her a nudge, frowning at the door pointedly. She slipped through the professors gathered sipping their wine on the raised platform to the door, the Hall beginning to buzz angrily again. Hagrid made no usual signs of greeting as she passed him, just stared at her, looking completely astonished.

* * *

It was a smaller room, the chamber beyond, the walls lined with portraits, filled with glass cabinets as a sort of second Trophy Room, the air punctuated with mechanical whirrings and other strange noises: the fireplace in which a handsome fire roared was so large the others could easily have walked into it.

Viktoria Krum, the Veela-boy and Cedric were grouped around the fire—Viktoria a slightly apart from the other two, leaning against the mantelpiece, while _Florent_ Delacour was talking quietly with Cedric, smiling beautifully at him. Harriet appeared at the top of the steps down into the room, and Cedric glanced up, his eyebrows quirked. Florent Delacour tossed his magnificent head, and threw out his chest, speaking imperiously.

"What is it?" he said. "Do zey want us back in ze Hall?"

Harriet glanced behind her, wondering who he was talking to, then glanced back, realising he was talking to her, Harriet. He thought Harriet was a messenger. Harriet slipped numbly down the steps and stood staring at the three. It suddenly struck her how _tall_ they were, how much older and much more beautiful they were—even Viktoria, in the glowing golden light of the fire.

Scurrying feet echoed on the steps behind her, and someone put their hands on her shoulders, guiding her forward.

"Extraordinary!" Harriet recognised the boisterous, excited voice of Mr Bagman. "Absolutely extraordinary. Gentleman—and lady," he said, addressing the other three as he steered Harriet to the fireside. "May I introduce—incredible though it may seem—the _fourth_ Triwizard Tournament."

Viktoria straightened up, her eyebrows contracting as she glanced at Harriet: Cedric stared at Harriet, nonplussed. Florent Delacour gave a tittering laugh, the kind Aunt Petunia used when she was hosting a dinner party and didn't particularly find a joke amusing, but knew it was good manners to laugh anyway.

"Oh, _vairy_ funny joke, Meester Bagman," he smiled, tossing his shoulder-length hair.

"Joke?" Bagman repeated, glancing down at Harriet, looking bewildered. "No, no, not at all! Harriet's name's just come out of the Goblet of Fire."

"But I didn't…" Harriet began, staring up at Bagman, glancing imploringly at Cedric, who kept glancing from her to Bagman. "Mr Bagman, I didn't put my name in!" Florent swept her eyes disdainfully over Harriet.

"But evidently zair 'as been a mistake," he said contemptuously. "She cannot compete. She is too young." Harriet nodded numbly, staring up at Bagman.

"Well…it _is_ amazing," Bagman said, rubbing his smooth chin and glancing down at Harriet with a troubled half-smile. "But…the age restriction _was_ only imposed this year as a precautionary measure… As her name's come out of the Goblet…well, I don't think there can be any ducking-out, Harriet, I'm sorry…You'll just have to do the best you can—"

The door at the top of the steps opened and a large group of people came in: Professor Dumbledore swept down the steps in his shimmering robes, Madame Maxime, her satins glowing in the firelight, Professor Karkaroff, looking surly and ill-tempered, Professors McGonagall and Snape. The buzzing of the angry Hall filled the stairwell before McGonagall shut the door sharply.

"Madame Maxime!" Florent said at once, striding over to his headmistress. "Zey are saying zat _zis_ leetle girl is to compete also!" Anger and humiliation flared inside Harriet, overriding numb disbelief.

"_Little girl_!" she flared up, hunching up defensively, glowering dangerously at _Florent Delacour_. "_Little_ girl! How many times have _you_ faced Lord Voldemort and defeated him, huh?"

Someone rested their hands on her shoulders, and, glowering she glanced up; Professor Snape, looking reproving and at the same time, oddly admiring. Several people gasped and winced; Florent Delacour clapped a hand to his mouth, her eyes widening to the size of saucers. Viktoria Krum straightened, eyeing Harriet with something akin to curiosity. Cedric gave her a half-admiring, half-exasperated look.

"Harriet," Dumbledore said gently, warningly, as Harriet glowered at Florent and one of Snape's hands tightened on her shoulder in warning—'_Do not speak the Dark Lord's name,_' she remembered. The door opened again, and Padfoot entered the room, paused, went up on his hind legs, and closed the door before slipping downstairs, taking his place beside Dumbledore, staring at Harriet.

"What is ze meaning of zis, Dumbly-dorr?" Madame Maxime said imperiously.

"I'd rather like to know that myself, Dumbledore," said Professor Karkaroff, who had gone very white when Harriet had shouted Voldemort's name at Florent, and was eyeing her as if somehow _scared_. But Karkaroff's eyes were chips of ice as he glanced at Dumbledore. "_Two_ Hogwarts champions? I don't remember anything about the host school being allowed _two_ champions—or have I not read the rules carefully enough?" He gave a short and very nasty laugh, such as would only be worthy of Snape in his most vindictive mood.

"_C'est impossible_," Madame Maxime said, resting her great opal-clad hand on Florent's shoulder. "'Ogwarts cannot 'ave two champions. It is most injust."

"We were under the impression that your Age Line would keep out younger contestants, Dumbledore," Karkaroff snarled, glowering at Dumbledore.

"Don't be rude to Professor Dumbledore!" Harriet snapped: She _wasn't_ in the mood to watch people attack Dumbledore for something neither she nor he could explain with any satisfaction. She wouldn't allow a Death Eater to be rude to Dumbledore. Karkaroff glared at her. Snape flicked her shoulder. Dumbledore now looked at her, and Harriet stared back, imploring him with her eyes, and trying to discern the expression in his eyes behind the flashing half-moon spectacles.

"Harriet, did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire?" he asked quietly.

"No sir!" Harriet said, tugging on her t-shirt, and glancing at Cedric; "I wanted _Cedric_ to be champion. I'd never bother _trying_ to get past any of your spells." _Except those obstacles in first year…_ She was aware of everybody watching her. Cedric glanced from her face to her t-shirt, and looked thoroughly confused.

"Did you ask any older student or member of staff to put it into the Goblet of Fire for you?" Dumbledore asked, and Harriet narrowed her eyes, knowing he was implying Sirius.

"_No_ sir," she said vehemently, frowning.

"Ah, but of course she is lying!" Madame Maxime cried.

"I am _not_!" Harriet snapped, glaring up at her. Considering she was at least half a foot shorter than everyone in the room, this was quite a dangerous thing, to provoke the large woman. "I'd never lie about things that are important." _Divination homework—yes: Almost certain death: No_.

"She could not have crossed the Age Line," McGonagall said sharply, her lips, Harriet recognised instantly, dangerously thin, as she glanced up at Madame Maxime. "I am sure we are all agreed on that—"

"Dumbly-dorr must 'ave made a mistake wiz ze line," Madame Maxime shrugged, frowning down at them all.

"It is _possible_, of course," Dumbledore said politely, without conviction.

"Dumbledore, you know perfectly well you did not make a mistake!" Snape said angrily, glaring around at the other teachers when Harriet glanced up. She wondered why he was being so _nice_, why he was on _her_ side for once. Had he been hit in the head by the Bludger that went stray this afternoon? "Harriet could not have crossed the line herself without help—and since I know she is quite a rudimentary potion-brewer, I know from experience she would not attempt to create an Aging Potion—you see she has no beard," he glowered around at all of them. Buried _deep_ beneath the insult was something that made Harriet's insides lift a bit; _He believed her_: He believed she hadn't put her name in.

"And if Dumbledore believes Harriet didn't put her name in, or ask anyone else to do it for her," Professor McGonagall said, standing straight and proud, glowering around at everyone, "I'm sure that should certainly be more than enough for everybody else."

"Mr Crouch…Mr Bagman…you are our—er—_objective_ judges," Karkaroff said, adopting his unctuous tone again. "Surely you agree this is most irregular."

_Yeah, I'm a freak alright_, Harriet thought sadly. Nobody would let her get away with this. Bagman wiped his round, boyish face on his handkerchief and glanced at Mr Crouch, hidden in half-shadow: He looked eerie, almost skull-like: Harriet was reminded of Sirius the first time she'd met him. When Crouch spoke, however, it was in the same curt voice he'd used at the Quidditch World Cup.

"We must follow the rules," he said curtly, "and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound by magical contract to compete in the Tournament."

"Barty knows the rulebook back to front," Bagman chuckled, beaming around, as if this settled the matter.

"I insist on resubmitting the names of the rest of my students," Karkaroff snarled; he had dropped his smile and his unctuous tone and looked very ugly indeed. "You will set up the Goblet of Fire once more, Dumbledore, and we will continue adding names until each school has _two_ champions. It's only fair, Dumbledore."

"Hang on!" Harriet blurted angrily, glancing around and flushing embarrassedly. "Who says I even _want_ to compete?"

"Why should you not?" Florent snapped viciously, tossing his hair: Harriet was reminded of the Veela at the Quidditch World Cup Final, and wondered whether Florent would sprout wings and a beak. "You 'ave ze chance to compete, 'aven't you? We 'ave all been 'oping to be chosen for weeks and weeks! Ze honour for our schools! A thousand galleons prize money—"

"I already _have_ money," Harriet snapped, overriding Florent, "and I already have _honour_ for the school—go and check the Awards for Services to the School," she gestured at the cabinet of plaques. "Why would I put my name in for a Tournament people have _died_ playing before?"

"Perhaps someone's hoping you _will_ die playing," someone growled, and mismatched steps alerted them all to Moody clunking down the steps from the Hall.

* * *

A very tense silence filled the room.

"Moody, old man," Bagman breathed, glancing at Harriet, looking very anxious and wiping his face again with his handkerchief, "what a thing to say, eh, what a thing to say in front of her."

"We all know Professor Moody considers the morning wasted if he hasn't discovered six plots to murder him before lunchtime," Karkaroff said loudly. "Apparently he is now teaching his students to fear assassination, too!"

"Better than training them to _be_ assassins," Harriet snapped. She didn't like Karkaroff _at all_. Snape gripped her shoulder very hard, but she ignored him: She glared so hard at Karkaroff that he had to break eye-contact, glancing around at the other professors, who were glancing at him with arched eyebrows and very snide expressions: his reputation for teaching the Dark Arts to his students was widespread.

"Harriet," Dumbledore said warningly, though his eyes were still on Karkaroff, who looked murderous and afraid; the two did not mix. Moody chuckled softly, apparently with satisfaction; he caught Harriet's eye and winked with his normal one.

"How this situation arose, we know not," Dumbledore said carefully, speaking to everyone. "It seems to be, however, that Harriet has no choice in the matter: She will have to compete. Both Cedric _and_ Harriet have been chosen by the Goblet of Fire to compete…This they will do…"

"Ah, but Dumbly-dorr—"

"My dear Madame Maxime," said Dumbledore gently, "if you have any alternative, I would be very grateful if you were to share it." Dumbledore waited, so did Harriet, but Madame Maxime didn't speak; she glared. Karkaroff looked livid. Mr Bagman, Harriet noticed, had the spring back in his step and looked rather excited.

"Shall we crack on then, now that's all sorted?" he asked eagerly, smiling around the room. "Barty, want to do the honours? We'll have to give them their instructions." Mr Crouch seemed to wake from a deep reverie.

"Yes," he said curtly. "The instructions…The first task…" He moved into the firelight, and, close to, Harriet thought he looked _ill_: Dark shadows beneath his eyes and a thin, papery look to his skin definitely hadn't been there at the Quidditch World Cup, not more than two months ago.

"The first task will take place on November the twenty-fourth, in front of the other students and the panel of judges," Crouch said curtly. "The champions are not permitted to ask for or accept help of any kind from their professors or other students to complete either of the three tasks in the Tournament. The first task is designed to test the champions' daring, so we will not tell you what it involves; you will be armed only with your wands. Courage in the face of the unknown is an important quality in a wizard… Very important…The champions will receive information regarding the second task after the completion of the first, and, owing to the demanding and time-consuming nature of the Tournament, the champions are exempt from all end-of-term tests and examinations.

"I think that's all, is it, Albus?" Crouch asked breathlessly, looking very tired.

"I think so," Dumbledore said, frowning at Crouch with mild concern. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to stay at Hogwarts tonight, Barty?"

"No, thank you, Dumbledore, I must get back to the Ministry. It is a very busy, very difficult time at the moment…I've left young Weatherby in charge…very enthusiastic…a little _over-_enthusiastic, if you ask me," Crouch said.

"Professor Karkaroff—Madame Maxime—a nightcap?" Dumbledore asked courteously: with a toss of his silvery shoulder-length hair, Florent accompanied Madame Maxime back up the steps into the Hall, both babbling away in very rapid French. Karkaroff beckoned to Viktoria, who nodded curtly at Harriet as she passed, and she and Karkaroff, who glowered at Harriet with deep dislike etched into his face, made their way upstairs in silence.

It was just the Hogwarts staff and Harriet and Cedric left in the chamber off the Hall now.

"Cedric, Harriet, I suggest you two both get up to bed," Dumbledore said quietly, smiling at both of them, his eyes lingering on Harriet's for a fraction longer. "I would hate to deprive Hufflepuff their chance to make a great deal of mess and noise, as they are certainly owed. And I would not wish Gryffindor to lose the opportunity to show our Durmstrang guests just how enthusiastic they all are!"

"But…but…but…" Harriet stammered, staring at Dumbledore. "You're making me _compete_?"

"I am afraid, Harriet, that Mr Crouch is quite right," Dumbledore sighed: "You are now bound in a powerful magical contract to complete each task to the very best of your abilities."

"I thought you're not _supposed_ to sacrifice virgins and babies!" Harriet flared up indignantly, her voice going higher. It was settling in: She was going to compete in a Tournament against three wizards who had years more magical experience under their belts, in tasks that had _killed people_ before. "And since I am _both_—!"

"Come on, Harriet," Cedric whispered in her ear, taking her arm gently; Snape released her shoulders and she staggered upstairs, into the now deserted Great Hall: The Goblet of Fire had disappeared and the Hall was lit by a few solitary sconces on the walls: the carved lanterns leered. They reached the top of the steps and Cedric closed the door behind her. Harriet sank against the wall, staring, still feeling very numb; her legs didn't seem to want to work properly, and her brain felt much as it did after Occlumensy lessons.

"Are you alright?" Cedric asked, looking very concerned that Harriet might collapse at any moment. Harriet glanced at him, having trouble breathing, and gulped.

"Why is it always me?" she whispered desperately.

"So…so you really _didn't_ put your name in?" Cedric said quietly, frowning at her. Harriet glanced up at him, realising again how tall and how handsome he was.

"'Course I didn't," she whispered. "I meant it when I told your friend you were worthy of representing Hogwarts." A flush blossomed in Cedric's cheeks, but seemingly without his consent, because his frown cancelled it out.

"Come on, we'd better…" He gestured at the doors into the Entrance Hall, and together they made their way through the Great Hall.

"Well…see you, then," Cedric said, separating from her to move towards the doorway to the right of the marble staircase. Harriet stared after him. He'd never brushed her off like that; he always had a smile and a hug for her nowadays. He had his hand on the door-handle when she reached the foot of the marble staircase.

"You don't believe me, do you," she said quietly, but, in the deserted marble Hall, her voice echoed loudly. Cedric paused, and glanced over his shoulder. He didn't have to say anything; his speechlessness, how awkward he looked that she'd found him out without him even saying anything, made something stab her between her ribcage, like a sharp, frozen blade, lodging right in her heart. Her eyes and throat felt burning hot in contrast and she had to fight the urge to let her lower-lip wobble. Instead she fixed her face in a fiery glare, and, tugging on the short-sleeved t-shirt she wore over the long-sleeved thermal one, she stripped it off and threw it at Cedric's head. He tugged it off his head and stared at her.

"There you go—give it to one of your girlfriends," she snarled, and ran up the marble stairs.

* * *

**A.N.**: Cedric+Ego=Bad!

* * *


	45. Grasping, Attention Seeking Little Liar

**A.N.**: ...And Rhona's reaction.

**

* * *

**

**Grasping, Attention-Seeking Little Liar**

* * *

She didn't hear anyone calling her name after her and she didn't hear anyone's padded feet following her at a run; she made her way upstairs, growing more upset and angrier the further she climbed, and wasn't in the mood for the Fat Lady to be smirking down at her.

"Well, well, well," she said, smirking, "Violet's just told me everything. Who's just been chosen as school champion, then?"

"Balderdash," Harriet groaned, running a hand over her head, which was beginning to pound.

"It most certainly isn't!" Violet, the pale witch sharing the Fat Lady's portrait said indignantly.

"No, no, Vi, that's the _password_," the Fat Lady said soothingly, and swung forward to admit Harriet.

The blast of noise that hit Harriet like an anvil doubled the intensity of the pounding in her head instantly, and she had no chance to resist the dozen-odd hands tugging her through the portrait hole.

The entire Gryffindor tower was still awake, even the Durmstrang lot: they were _all_ screaming and applauding and laughing with a mixture of admiration, shock, surprise, and indignation—

"You should've _told _us you'd entered!" Fred shouted from the crate of Butterbeer bottles under the window, grinning: Sasha and Aleksey grinned over at her, as George told them loudly of the story of Harriet's first year.

"How did you do it without getting a beard?" roared George, and Raisa and Svetlana laughed, waving at her, clutching Butterbeers and cream cakes. Angelina swooped down on her and hugged her fiercely.

"_Oh_, if it couldn't be me—at least it's a Gryffindor," she beamed.

"You'll be able to pay back Diggory for that last Quidditch match, Harriet!" Katie Bell grinned, standing with Mikhail.

"I know you can win, Harriet!" Norah called, waving and beaming beautifully, standing with Dmitry by the windowsill on which her _Mimbulus Mimbletonia _cuttings lived. "After what you did with that Basilisk! I know you can do it!"

"Come on, Harriet—we've got food!" There was no sign of Hermes.

"Have something to eat—" Or Rhona.

"Have a Butterbeer, Harriet—" Nobody wanted to hear that she hadn't put her name into the Goblet. Nobody seemed to care that she was three years younger than the other champions, had that many years _less_ magical education, nobody cared that people had _died_ in this Tournament because they were underage.

"No, thanks—No, I really don't want—_I'M TIRED_!" she shouted, after half an hour, tears of desperation splashing down her face. "No, _really_, Colin, I'm going to bed," she said weakly, pushing her way past the little Creevey brothers to the girls' staircase.

* * *

She wanted more than anything to find Hermes and Rhona—to find some semblance of sanity, but the only person she met on the way upstairs was Viktoria Krum: she sat just a few steps below the door of her dormitory she shared with the other Durmstrang girls, and was using the light of a sconce to write a letter. She glanced up when she heard Harriet's footsteps and her quill paused. She licked her lips, and her dark eyes glittered in the half-darkness of the stairwell.

"Hi," Harriet breathed, wiping her cheeks on her sleeve. "How come you're not down at the party?"

"They are very enthusiastic," Viktoria said, chuckling softly. She flicked her dark eyes over Harriet: "They are making you compete," she said quietly, and Harriet, her shoulders sloping downwards, nodded. "They should not be angry vith you."

Harriet shrugged, and tried to undo the knot Lee Jordan had made in the ties of the Gryffindor banner he had draped around her like a cloak. "I'm sorry I insulted your headmaster."

"Do not be," Viktoria said darkly, standing up to help her with the knot. "You are the first to ever speak up to him in such a way. I vish Karkaroff had half as much respect for his pupils as Dumbledore does for you—it vould make us respect him far more."

"You really don't like him, do you," Harriet said, and Viktoria's eyes darkened again, but her expression softened as she examined Harriet's face.

"You must be very brave, to mention You-Know-Who's name as you did, vith vat he did to your family," she said quietly. "The twins, they vere telling us how you fought _him_ off when you only just begun here at Hogvarts." Harriet nodded. "Ve all hear such things of you I am wondering vether the other girl knows _anything_ of your past. Such things I read, I vould not be surprised if you vere to win this Tournament." Harriet couldn't help it—it burst from her before she could stop herself.

"Do _you_ believe I didn't put my name in for the Tournament?" Viktoria eyed her shrewdly for a moment.

"You have much respect for your professors," she said, "You hold them in high esteem. I noticed this downstairs. It appears to me you vould not go against Professor Dumbledore's vishes to keep everyone safe." Harriet nodded, feeling highly relieved. Well, if she had affirmation from the world's best Quidditch player, the loss of the respect of the boy she liked didn't have to hurt so _very_ much. But it did. She glanced down, at the book Viktoria was using to write on.

"Are you writing to your parents?" she asked.

"Yes. My father vill vant to know vat has happened," she said, with a small sigh.

"Did he want you to enter the Tournament?"

"Yes. My mother did not vant me to hurt myself," Viktoria said quietly. "She is not so bothered about fame and all of that as my father is—as long as I am healthy and happy, she does not mind vat I do." Harriet sighed softly.

"The only thing I know about my father is that he wanted me to play for England," Harriet said, smiling.

"You fly very vell—I noticed this afternoon," Viktoria said, and she actually _smiled_.

"Not as well as you—I saw, at the World Cup—the Wronski Feint," Harriet beamed. "I tried all summer after the match to figure out how to do it like you did!"

"It vould not take very long for you to learn it," Viktoria said, flicking her eyes over Harriet's face interestedly, as if weighing her up. "The von vith the accent, Seamus, he told us of your first flying lesson. Ve should fly together sometimes."

Harriet beamed—Viktoria Krum, best Seeker in the world, believed that Harriet hadn't put her name in for the Tournament and thought that she, Harriet, was a _good flier_.

"I'd like that," Harriet grinned. Suddenly she felt a little better. She glanced at Viktoria as she folded the Gryffindor banner in neat folds.

"They used to put these on me," she said quietly, frowning as she handed it back to Harriet. "Vonce someone trod on the hem and I almost choked. Vell…goodnight."

"'Night," Harriet smiled tiredly. "I'll let you get back to your letter." Viktoria nodded, sitting back down under the sconce, and Harriet wondered why she didn't sit in her dormitory to write. She opened the dormitory door and slipped inside.

* * *

"Arranging your next play-date?" someone asked tartly, and Harriet glanced up: Rhona was lying on her bed, fully-clothed, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"There you are!" Harriet breathed a sigh of relief. "I've been looking for you."

"Difficult when you're ogling Viktoria Krum," Rhona said tartly, still looking at the draped ceiling of her four-poster.

"'Scuse me?" Rhona sat up, arms still folded. She swept her eyes over Harriet, and the banner in her arms.

"So. I supposed congratulations are in order."

"For what?"

"Don't play dumb, Harriet—that friend of the Fat Lady's, Violet, she's told us all they're allowing you to compete," Rhona said, and her expression turned very ugly. "Couldn't resist, could you?"

"Resist what?"

"_Please_—famous Harriet Potter, underage champion for Hogwarts," Rhona said snidely. "A thousand galleons prize money, and you don't have to do end-of-year tests. Bet you couldn't _wait_ to sign up, 'specially since the winner will get eternal glory."

"Okay, which best friend are _you_ imagining you're talking to?" Harriet asked, throwing the banner down on her trunk and frowning at Rhona.

"Best friend? Ha!" Rhona scoffed, her expression ugly as she sneered at Harriet. "If you _were_ my best-friend, you'd've told me you were entering, and helped _me_ enter too!"

"Of course I would've," Harriet said, taken-aback, "_if I'd entered myself_."

"Oh, you're going to try that on, are you?" Rhona smirked horribly. "Yeah, and why would anyone else want to put _your_ name in when they could put their own in?"

"Oh, I don't know," Harriet shrugged lightly, growing angrier by the second; Rhona had _never_ treated her like this. "If you ask Moody, he'd say someone's out to _kill me_."

"And who'd be out to kill you?" Rhona smiled sardonically.

"Oh, I don't know," Harriet said breezily, feigning ignorance, glowering. "I don't know—who'd _ever_ want to _kill_ me? Hm? That's a really _difficult _one, isn't it—oh, wait, no, now I remember—_LORD VOLDEMORT_!"

Rhona's face went white—whether from fear or fury, it was difficult for Harriet to tell, because her next words were dripping like icicles.

"Yes, I suppose you _would_ say that, wouldn't you," she snarled. "It'd make an _excellent_ story for the papers, wouldn't it? Nice cover…You'd better get to bed, Harriet, you'll need all the beauty sleep you can, in case you have a photo-call in the morning…mind you, all the beauty sleep in the world wouldn't do _you_ much good."

"Why are you being such a _bitch_?" Harriet hissed.

"Oh, _I'm_ being a bitch!" Rhona laughed, and her voice was a little hysterical.

"_YES, _YOU_ ARE_!" Harriet shouted at her.

"Well at least I'm not a grasping, attention-seeking little liar!"

"No, you're a two-faced little _tart_!"

Rhona looked for a split-second as if that one had hurt, before ripping her curtains shut. Harriet stood there, at the foot of her bed, staring at the dark red velvet curtains, which now hid one of the few people Harriet had thought would believe her.

"Harriet?" someone said gently, and Harriet, blinking, realised there were hot tears welling in her eyes as she glanced over at the door; Norah stood there, with Elizaveta. "Is everything alright?"

"Ve heard raised voices," Elizaveta said softly, glancing at Rhona's bed.

"I'm fine," Harriet said quietly, so they couldn't hear how hoarse her voice was, thick with anger.

"Ve vere going to bring you and Viktoria down to the party," Elizaveta said, smiling sadly. "But I see you vould like to be alone."

* * *

Alone, yes, Harriet was very much alone the next morning when she woke up, miserable and tired-eyed from crying silently, her feet cold: Padfoot was not sleeping on them, as he usually was, and Harriet could only imagine where he had gone; she had not seen him around Hogwarts very much. It did not take very long to remember, however, why she felt so miserable. She wrenched her hangings open, determined to force Rhona to believe her—only to find that, not only her bed, but Norah's and Lavender's and Parvati's, were all empty. It was barely nine o'clock, but the dormitory was already empty.

If there was one thing Daisy's oversized hand-me-downs were worth keeping for, it was days like this—days when Harriet just felt like remaining under the covers and drowning in self-pity. She tugged on an oversize black cotton-cashmere jumper that slipped off her slim shoulder, showing the pattern of the delicate floral taupe thermal vest she wore beneath, slipped on a pair of older, baggy jeans that were worn in perfectly, and kicked her oldest pair of black Vans on, tugging her hair into two messy plaits, not bothering with contact-lenses or makeup, but slipped her glasses on and pawed tiredly at her eyes as she slipped downstairs.

She stopped, cringing, as applause greeted her at the foot of the girls' staircase; those who had already returned from breakfast applauded her; Mikhail and Svetlana smiled and waved from the fireplace, where they were enjoying warming their toes, reading, Svetlana knitting. The prospect of going down to the Great Hall and meeting the unkindness that would doubtless be waiting for her there, if only from the Slytherins, was not appetising, but then neither was a bunch of third years gazing avidly at her scar: Colin and Dennis Creevey waved her over to the wireless cheerily. She walked resolutely to the portrait hole and ran into Hermes, who appeared bearing pain au chocolat and croissants in a napkin.

"I thought we could go for a walk," he said tiredly, looking as if he hadn't got much sleep. Harriet nodded, relief sweeping over her, and she and Hermes made their way downstairs, not pausing to look into the Great Hall when Padfoot joined them, but as they slipped around the lake to one of the most remote parts of the shore, where nobody could see them either from the Durmstrang ship or the Hogwarts windows, Sirius the man took Harriet's hand as they paused by an outcrop of rock over the lake perfect to dangle their legs over the water.

"Where were you?" Harriet asked him miserably. Sirius stroked her hair carefully and peered into her face with utmost concern.

"Dumbledore," he said softly. Harriet's nostrils flared, hot, and her throat burned, nodding. She pushed her glasses up her nose and gulped.

"Harriet, tell us what happened—tell _me_ what happened, in that room," Hermes said quietly, handing out the pastries. Harriet took a deep breath, feeling as if she was going to start crying any moment as she took a bite of pain au chocolat, and sighed heavily. She told Hermes, and Sirius, who hadn't been there for the first bit, when she'd snapped at Florent Delacour, exactly everything that had happened after her name had come out of the Goblet of Fire. Hermes accepted the story without question; Sirius held her hand tenderly while she told it.

"Well, of course I believe you didn't put your name in!" Hermes said, rolling her eyes as if she shouldn't have even doubted he wouldn't. "The look on your face when your name was called, Bambi—anyway, you said from the beginning you wouldn't like to enter. But the question is, who _did_ put your name in, because Moody's right, Harriet, I don't think anybody but a very powerful wizard could've done it. A student could'n't've done it," Hermes said, tearing the last croissant in half and splitting it with Sirius. "They'd never be able to fool the Goblet—"

"Okay, so it wasn't a student—who _are_ the suspects?" Harriet sighed heavily. "I don't reckon Snape would've done it, do you, Sirius?"

"Not since he knows I'd rip his throat out without taking a breath," Sirius remarked, delicately picking apart his croissant. "And not since I asked him outright last night when we were all in Dumbledore's office."

"You—Sirius, you _keep_ showing him who you are," Hermes said desperately, throwing up his hands.

"He won't tell on me," Sirius shrugged.

"How d'you know?" Hermes asked vehemently. "He tried to get you _Kissed_ not six months ago."

"I am here to fulfil my godfatherly duties," Sirius said. He eyed Harriet. "If he doesn't turn me in, it'll be between him and Lily why he wouldn't hurt _you_ like that, Harriet." Harriet glanced at Hermes, who hadn't missed her mother's name.

"They were friends at school," Harriet explained to him; Hermes gaped.

"Yes, and I pointed out last night that if he were to harm you in any way, Lily would make sure bad things would happen to him," Sirius said, and added, "_through me_."

"Who could it've _been_, though?" Hermes sighed, frowning. "This is so frustrating!"

"Well it wasn't Madame Maxime—she seemed really insulted by me being chosen—you should've heard her talking to that tarty Fleur girl when they left, I wish I knew what they were saying," Harriet said, sighing heavily. She knew it hadn't been good.

"Oh, well, that I _can_ tell you," Hermes said, smiling slightly and exchanging a look with Sirius.

"What?" Harriet asked, glancing between them.

"Well, Isabelle, Cécile and Yolande sat with me at breakfast, you see, and Yolande told me—don't look at me like that, Harriet," Hermes blushed, "Yolande told me that none of the Beauxbatons students really _likes_ Florent: he's a snob, and thinks he's a cut above the others because he's Madame Maxime's favourite, Émile told me. Putting it in mild terms, the other Beauxbatons students are really _annoyed_ that Florent was chosen—Isabelle told me she wished he hadn't been chosen, because of how he reflected on the school, throwing a fit and insulting you, Harriet.

"The boys all heard that you'd called You-Know-Who by his real name, and they were really impressed—once they'd gotten over their shock, I think. Yolande was delighted by how perfectly _normal_ and approachable you were yesterday, considering who you are. And Sabine says you've lived up to her mother's description of what your mother was like, when she was at Beauxbatons. Gérard thinks the same, of what his half-brother said of when he was in the Order of the Phoenix."

"Gérard and Yolande? What's their last name?" Sirius frowned.

"_Doré_," Hermes smiled. "Their mother is the French Minister for Magic."

"Well…I didn't know any Dorés in the Order," Sirius said thoughtfully. "I knew a D'Amboise—Jacques. Very good friend of ours, actually."

"I think that's Yolande's brother," Hermes said keenly. "Her mother remarried—yes, _D'Amboise_ was the name of her mother's first husband."

"How come you never told me about that, Sirius—about Mum studying abroad?" Harriet asked, glancing at Sirius: He just laughed loudly, his face splitting into a grin.

"I'd forgotten about that," he smiled, chuckling to himself. "You should've seen your father that term she was gone! _Disconsolate_. He spent every night _moping_ on the sofa, pining for her, holding this raggedy old teddy bear his mother gave him when he was a baby! They didn't even start going out until _seventh_ year."

"He was smitten with her, then?" Harriet smiled. Sirius barked a laugh again.

"I think since the first day he met her," he smiled reminiscently. "Reading between the lines of their conversations before seventh year, though, I thought she reckoned he was a bit conceited."

"A _bit_?" Hermes smirked, laughing: Sirius grinned, winking at Harriet.

"He was always _highly_ affronted that Lily wasn't at all impressed with his Quidditch talent," he smiled. "But…well, you're not like him in that department, Harriet, I noticed yesterday: you don't show off about Quidditch—or anything, really—like your dad did."

Harriet scoffed. "Tell that to _Rhona_—where _is she_, anyway?" She caught the glance Sirius and Hermes exchanged. "What?"

"She was at breakfast…" Hermes said delicately, looking very guilty, "with…oh, with _Lavender and Parvati_." Harriet stared at him for a moment; Rhona was sitting with Lavender and Parvati! But she _hated_ them, she hated how gossip-mongering they were, how much they admired Professor Trelawney, how ditzy and _girlish_ they were.

"Norah told us—well, she told Hermes—what happened in the dormitory last night," Sirius said quietly.

"She heard all of it?" Harriet cringed, tugging the hem of her jumper over her knees to curl up inside it.

"She heard enough," Hermes said, sighing.

"Are you alright?" Sirius asked tenderly. Harriet grumbled. "You will be…best-friends can forgive each other anything." Harriet glanced up at Sirius and wondered what made his voice go misty and reminiscent: she turned to Hermes.

"Does Rhona still think I entered myself?"

"Well—she's not talking to me, as I snapped at her for gossiping about you to Lavender and Parvati, saying horrible things both of us _know_ you've never done _or_ said about anyone," Hermes said, taking a deep breath. "But I don't think that's why she's being…how she's being."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"Oh, Harriet," Hermes sighed, "she's _jealous_."

"Jealous? Of what?"

"Of—look, I know you've never asked for it, alright, and I know you _hate_ it, but you've got to admit, it's always you, isn't it, you always steal the limelight," Hermes said, looking pained. "I expect this was one time too many; she always gets pushed aside when people see you."

"Oh, well, just as long as she's getting the admiration she feels she's owed while I'm out being _gored_ by an Erumpent," Harriet snapped. "Fine! Cross _her_ off the guest-list for my funeral. Invite Malfoy instead—at least he'll do the thing properly, being upset 'cos he didn't get to curse me!"

"That isn't funny!" Sirius snapped dangerously, and Harriet jumped. He looked _very_ dangerous.

"That isn't funny at all," Hermes said quietly, looking heartbroken. Harriet just fiddled with her fingers.

"So what do the Durmstrang lot think?" she asked, not keen to have Hermes looking so anxious, or Sirius so dangerous. She hadn't seen anyone besides Viktoria, and that was last night. She could easily have mulled over it overnight and come to a different conclusion than the one she'd reached last night.

"Oh, well, _they_ all think you're fantastic, no question," Hermes smiled. "Viktoria Krum told them all what happened down in that room off the Hall—told them you'd _insulted their headmaster to his face_. They were absolutely _delighted_." Harriet cringed guiltily, and caught Sirius's eye; he was smirking.

"You impressed Mad-Eye, talking to Karkaroff the way you did," he chuckled softly. "You put _him_ in his place—serve him right, speaking to Dumbledore like that."

"So the Durmstrangs aren't annoyed I'll be playing as well as Cedric?" she asked. Hermes frowned at her curiously. She'd said his name with a bitter taste in her mouth.

"No, actually they think it'll even out the competition—they don't reckon Florent Delacour's up to much," Hermes smirked. "I don't either—he'll probably break a nail and faint."

"Yeah…Or someone might sneak up into the Ravenclaw dormitories and cut off all his silky shiny _hair_," Harriet said vindictively, cackling theatrically.

"You say Viktoria Krum is the Durmstrang champion, yes? What is she like?" Sirius asked quietly, glancing at Harriet. "She didn't say anything last night."

"She's actually alright," Harriet said. "They all are. Viktoria told me last night she doesn't believe I'd betray Dumbledore's trust by putting my name in for the Tournament, when he'd expressly forbidden anyone underage from entering."

"You don't think it was _Karkaroff_, do you?" Hermes asked, glancing discerningly at Sirius. Sirius glanced at him.

"But he seemed _furious_," Harriet frowned. "You heard him, Sirius, he wanted to stop me competing."

"We know he's a good actor," Sirius growled, "Because he convinced the Ministry of Magic to set him free, didn't he?"

"But he wouldn't do it under Dumbledore's nose, would he," Hermes frowned.

"I'm not sure," Sirius sighed heavily. "Listen, Harriet…" He glanced at Hermes and sighed heavily, before running a hand through his glossy hair and fixing Harriet with a very worried look. "Your name rising from the Goblet of Fire, Moody out of retirement—your dream in June…these aren't _coincidences_, and I'm not the only one who's getting worried."

"What do you mean?"

"Let's begin with Moody, alright. Reading between the lines of the _Daily Prophet_ article about him last month, Moody was attacked the night before he was expected at Hogwarts—I know Rita Skeeter says it was a false alarm, but I don't think so. I think someone attempted to stop him getting to Hogwarts…Perhaps someone who thought their job would be a lot more difficult if _he_ was around. Just because he's a bit hex-happy doesn't mean Moody can't spot a real intrusion—he was the best Auror the Ministry ever had."

"So you think Karkaroff _could_ have put my name in?" Harriet stared.

"No. I've been following him around the last few days—oh, he doesn't realise it; I've been tailing Dumbledore, and they've been spending a lot of time together, with Madame Maxime and the other two—Bagman and Crouch."

"So who else could it have been?" Harriet asked helplessly.

"I don't know," Sirius sighed tiredly. "But this isn't the first strange event to happen. The Quidditch World Cup: You've told me about the Death Eaters, and the Dark Mark. Bertha Jorkins missing."

"Mr Bagman said Bertha Jorkins is perfectly capable of getting lost," Hermes said. "Percy Weasley told us so, this summer: He's Mr Crouch's personal assistant…or something of the sort."

"Well, not the Bertha Jorkins _I_ knew at school," Sirius said, shaking his head. "I've been talking to Dumbledore about it a lot—the Bertha Jorkins that Bagman is describing isn't the one either of us knew. She was a few years above your dad and me, Harriet; she was an _idiot_. A gossipmonger, but no brains at all, very nosy: she had an _excellent_ memory for gossip, but she never knew when to keep her mouth shut; she used to get into a lot of trouble over it…and Dumbledore says she disappeared in Albania, and that's _definitely_ where Voldemort was rumoured to be last—and Bertha would know all about the Triwizard Tournament coming up, wouldn't she."

"Yeah, but—" Harriet spoke up, glancing between the two. "The dream I had of Voldemort, and Wormtail. It was in England, I know it was. The Muggle man, the one Voldemort used Nagini to kill, he was speaking English."

"Well, if he has Wormtail with him," Sirius sighed, shaking his head doggedly, "I'd not wonder if he was back in England already. Someone to take care of him, set things rolling… Harriet, you haven't told anyone besides me, Hermes and Rhona about Dumbledore's lessons, have you?" Sirius asked, after a few minutes' contemplative silence. She shook her head.

"No."

"You didn't mention them to Cedric, did you?" Harriet shook her head again. She wouldn't be talking to _Cedric_ for a while.

"Then it's safe to say that whoever put your name into the Goblet knows nothing of your involvement with Dumbledore," Sirius said, "and what you two know of Voldemort…what you must do." He cupped her face in his hands and gazed at her.

For a moment, the shutters closed behind Sirius's eyes, making them appear more deadened than Harriet had yet seen them: he looked like the man in the Shrieking Shack once more. She was moved to put her arms around his neck and kiss his cheek, tucking her chin over his shoulder.

With a tremendous sigh, and a lot of effort, it seemed, Sirius pushed Harriet enough away from him so that she could see his face. He gave her a long kiss on her temple and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Well, whoever it was who put your name in for this Tournament, they don't know who they're dealing with," he said, smiling gently.

"I reckon Mum and Dad would be pretty angry with me, for getting my name picked," Harriet mumbled quietly, playing with a few tiny stones on the rock. Sirius surprised her by barking a loud laugh.

"Are you kidding me—well, your mum, definitely, she'd be at her wit's end after all the trouble _you_ get into, missy," Sirius laughed, grinning, tickling her sides, "even if she _was_ married to James! Your dad, though—he's probably up there right now, making _banners_!"

"Really?" Harriet asked, watery-eyed. Sirius chuckled to himself softly, nodding.

"He'd always be your biggest supporter," he said hoarsely, looking miserable.

* * *

**A.N.**: Had to end on an amusing note: I can just picture James bedecked in Gryffindor paraphernalia, sitting on a cloud and whooping!

* * *


	46. The SCD Campaign

**A.N.**: I was feeling giddy reading all the fantabulously sweet reviews, so I thought I'd update a few more chapters!!! In this chapter, _SlytherclawXHuffledor_, I'll warn you that you'll find a sweetly-conflicted _Malfoy_! _Incroyable_, no!

* * *

**The ****S.C.D. Campaign**

* * *

Though she, Sirius and Hermes spent most of Sunday outside (Sirius having called Dobby out from the kitchens just by calling his name, and having asked him to procure them some lunch, which Dobby was more than happy to do, and did so to great effect, them enjoying a three-course lunch on the little rocky outcrop over the lake) Monday meant a return to lessons; it meant facing the rest of the school.

Like the Gryffindors, nobody else believed Harriet hadn't put her name into the Goblet of Fire. In complete contrast to the Gryffindors' enthusiasm, however, nobody else was at all impressed by her—by what they thought she'd done.

Even the Hufflepuffs, with whom the Gryffindors had traditionally always been on very friendly terms, had turned remarkably cool towards the whole lot of them; one Herbology lesson on Monday morning was enough to prove this: It was very plain they all thought Harriet had stolen their glory, a feeling exacerbated by the fact that Cedric had been one of the few people to ever have brought their House any, having once beaten Gryffindor—and Harriet—once at Quidditch. Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott snickered unkindly at their potting bench with Lavender, Parvati and Rhona (who all laughed nastily; somehow both Lavender and Parvati seemed to have taken Rhona's point-of-view, shared by the rest of the school) when the Bouncing Bulbs Harriet had been attempting to re-pot at her bench with Ernie Macmillan and Hermes got loose and smacked her right in the eye—she'd had to run up to the hospital wing, afraid of going blind for real, and was very glad of this, because her next lesson of the morning was Care of Magical Creatures.

Whilst usually she would have anticipated seeing Hagrid, particularly on an occasion like this, it also meant seeing the Slytherins for the first time since her name had come out of the Goblet.

"Ah, look, boys, look who's deigned to grace us with her presence," Pansy Parkinson sneered, as Harriet sprinted back down the lawn fifteen minutes later, assured by Madam Pomfrey (who had been very irritable, because Harriet was one of her most accident-prone patients in the entire time she had been working at Hogwarts and it was widely known the extent of the danger to which champions were subjected) that her eye had had no lasting damage from the Bouncing Bulb, but recommended she not just rely on her glasses as a shield next time.

"The _champion_," Parkinson smirked; Malfoy had applied himself to his _Monster Book of Monsters_. "Have you all got your autograph books? I'd get them signed now; you know the mortality rate for the Triwizard champions. Half of them have died, haven't they? How long d'you reckon _you'll_ last, Potter?"

"Longer than you, if you keep that up, Parkinson!" Hagrid growled, stomping around the back of his cabin holding a teetering tower of crates. To everyone's utter mortification, Hagrid went on to explain that the reason for the Blast-Ended Skrewts killing each other was an excess of energy—and the solution was for each of them to take a Skrewt for a walk.

"Take this _thing _for a _walk_?" Malfoy gaped disgustedly, staring into the box at his feet. He glanced up at Hagrid and picked a very sickly-sweet tone to address him; "And _where_ do we put the lead? Around the sting, the blasting end or the sucker?"

"The middle," Hagrid growled, "like this. Harrie', you come an' help me with this one." Waiting until everyone had set off with their Skrewts, Hagrid turned to Harriet.

"So—yer competin'," he said heavily. "In the Tournament, and everythin'. School champion."

"One of the champions," Harriet corrected, with a sting of bitterness. She'd seen Cedric Diggory at breakfast, surrounded by a group of pretty, simpering girls. Hagrid's beetle-black eyes glittered anxiously.

"No idea who put yeh in fer it, then?"

"You believe I didn't do it?" Harriet gasped, glancing up at Hagrid and feeling an enormous rush of gratitude for the first friend she'd ever had.

"'Course I do," Hagrid said consolingly. "And Dumbledore believes yer an' all. Yeh say it wasn't you, an' I believe yeh." Harriet felt her eyes burning—perhaps because of the patch Madam Pomfrey had put over her eye to heal it of the enormous bruise that had sprung up within seconds of being smacked by a Bouncing Bulb—and she reached out to hug Hagrid's knee. He chuckled softly and patted her back gently.

"Thanks Hagrid," she said hoarsely, her throat constricted.

"Ah, I don' know, Harrie'," Hagrid sighed, when she had helped him clear away the Skrewts' crates. "All seems ter happen ter you, doesn' it?"

"Yeah," Harriet said dully.

"Yer dad woulda been dead chuffed, I reckon," Hagrid said suddenly, grinning down at Harriet. "_Dead_ _chuffed_. He'd've put 'is name in, an' all. Reckon he coulda won, too, brave wizard like him! Yer mum, too…I reckon yeh'll make 'em proud, Harrie', no matter if you don' want to be in the Tournament. Yeh'll do yer best, and nobody can say anything against yeh."

* * *

But they could, and did. The next few days were the worst Harriet had ever endured outside of Privet Drive: not even those few months in her second year, when everyone thought she was setting the Basilisk on Muggle-borns, measured up to the level of hostility she had to live through in those few days directly after the choosing of the champions. At least when people thought she was a Dark Sorceress, she'd had Rhona. She could've taken anything the school had to throw at her—and she had done, many times before—if only she'd had Rhona.

But arguments between girls were different than those between boys—boys threw punches or curses and the next day they'd settled any dispute, no matter how large. Girls, on the other hand…things simmered slow and snide for a long time… Rhona became a permanent fixture with Lavender and Parvati, who, in accordance with Rhona's impression of Harriet, had turned very cold towards her. Rumours started flying around the school about Harriet, which Hermes told her to ignore, wisely, but it was very difficult to ignore one's best-friend telling the entire student body her deepest, darkest secrets—that she remembered in minute detail the night her parents had been killed, that she saw things through Voldemort's eyes sometimes…that she had a crush on Cedric Diggory.

Nobody let her forget it—or leave her in any doubt what they thought Cedric must think of her.

Peeves had invented a new rendition of '_Oh Potter, you rotter, oh what have you done?_' which he had come up with in her second year, and now had a brand-new dance routine, and he had the habit of tailing her around, so that nobody could be in any doubt where she was at any given moment, so they could whisper behind their hands at each other or shout insults directly at her. She became the victim of every cruel piece of gossip anybody could come up with, and it wasn't uncommon for Padfoot to have to follow her into the girls' lavatories, because her fellow female schoolmates seemed to think she needed to be put into her place: on such occasions, Padfoot barked so loudly and growled so threateningly, doubling his size with the sheer fear he inspired in them, that the girls ran screaming hysterically from the room, flying to their Heads of houses to claim they were being bullied by Harriet.

On top of all that, Cedric still had yet to make direct eye-contact with her. Every time she saw him, though, it had to be said, he was surrounded by so many admirers and simpering groupies that Harriet was thrown back to last year, when she'd been escorted around the castle by a small army afraid Sirius Black would attack her in the girls' loos, and couldn't imagine how Cedric could manage to get to lessons on time. But it hurt, seeing him surrounded by friends and admirers, people _smiling_ at him—whilst their expressions turned when they saw her, as if she was a particularly large Blast-Ended Skrewt.

The only students who were remarkably kind to her were from Durmstrang. More so than the Beauxbatons ones, because Harriet saw them only in passing between lessons, and they still sat at the Ravenclaw table, though Yolande and her friends, Isabelle and Cécile, made the effort to say hello to her at every opportunity; living in Gryffindor Tower as they were, the Durmstrang students—the boys at least—had sort of become an emotional Guard of Honour for her, whenever they saw her being harassed in the corridors. Despite his liking for Rhona's looks, Valentin was her most stalwart defender: nobody was going to argue with a boy who stood at almost seven-foot tall. Sasha and Aleksey had teamed up with Fred and George to punish afterwards any students they saw hurting Harriet's feelings, and the two Russians were becoming as notorious as the twins, with whom they had bonded in a fierce friendship; McGonagall had already issued them both detentions for duelling with two seventh-year Slytherins who'd attempted to waylay Harriet in a lonely dungeon passageway after Potions on Wednesday. The two Slytherins were still in the hospital wing.

One Divination lesson with Professor Trelawney, that first Monday, had Harriet's death predicted a total of one hundred and forty-seven times in three hours. Professor Trelawney seemed to get a kick out of it. Whilst Rhona and Lavender and Parvati had chosen to sit together and not look at her except when whispering conspiratorially and laughing unkindly, glancing over the tops of their _Unfogging the Future_ books, Norah had joined Harriet at her table, doing her best to distract Harriet from the unkindness that poured in from all sides. It was a mark of how innately kind Norah was, that she stuck by Harriet even when the rumours circulating the school started involving her too.

"I'm hopeless," Norah whimpered, as they left Charms, both her and Harriet the only two students to get any homework, because they had done so poorly on Summoning Charms.

"You're not hopeless, Norah, your technique just needs a little refining, that's all," Hermes said comfortingly; he had been making Lunascopes and board-erasers and wastepaper baskets zoom across the room to him all lesson. "And Harriet—you just weren't _concentrating_ enough."

"Wonder why that was," Harriet said miserably, glowering at Cedric Diggory as he walked past, a group of simpering girls—including some _Slytherins_—pawing all over him. "Still—double-Potions this afternoon, at least _that's_ something to look forward to."

Harriet had already sat through Wednesday's double-Potions lesson, with Hermes whispering, "_Ignore them_, ignore them, _ignore them_," in her ear for three consecutive hours. She'd ended up snapping at him and cutting her finger with her silver knife—which had actually been the perfect ingredient to add to her antidote, Snape said, if she was to drink it after being poisoned, as it would be specific for her. Whilst Snape hadn't been outwardly hostile to her (perhaps because Padfoot had sat behind her the entire lesson) he hadn't gone out of his way to stop the Slytherins being so cruel.

* * *

After lunch, filled with more dread even than Norah, Harriet made her way down to the dungeons with Hermes: the Slytherins were already gathered outside their classroom, and Pansy Parkinson was cooing at Draco Malfoy; "Go on, Draco, _we're_ all wearing one." Harriet watched Malfoy eyeing something in Pansy Parkinson's hand, biting his lip and frowning, before taking it seemingly reluctantly; he saw Harriet as he looked up, fixing something to his robes, and nudged Pansy, nodding pointedly at Harriet. Pansy Parkinson whirled around and her pug-like face mutilated into a disgusting sneer. She, along with all of the other Slytherins, was wearing a small, heavy badge; for one fleeting moment, Harriet thought they were S.P.E.W. badges; she still wore hers attached to her bag. Then she saw that they all bore the same message in luminous yellow letters against the black, silver-edged background:

_Support_

_CEDRIC DIGGORY_

_The REAL_

_Hogwarts_

_Champion!_

"Like them, Potter?" Pansy Parkinson sneered, as Harriet approached; she noticed Malfoy pointedly kept his eyes on the ground, fiddling with his badge as if it was burning him where he'd pinned it. "And this isn't all they do—_look_!"

She pressed her badge into her chest, and Harriet had to squint to see what the new saying was, burning red against the black;

_Harriet_

_t__he_

_Harlot_

_**S**__**ucks**_

"I thought it was appropriate, seeing as what people are saying around school nowadays," Pansy shrieked a laugh.

"Harriet isn't a harlot!" Norah spoke up passionately, glaring at Pansy. "_She_ isn't the silly little tart who got caught by Professor McGonagall in the passage by the Transfiguration corridor last week _doing things_ to _Blaise Zabini—_I was there when she found you both." Harriet glanced up at Pansy—and Blaise Zabini, who towered at the back of the other Slytherins—and laughed at their expressions. She laughed for the first time in many days, and the sound seemed alien to her.

"Inside, everyone," said a silky voice, and Snape gestured everyone into the dungeon classroom. "Parkinson—Greengrass; take off those _vulgar_ badges." Harriet caught Snape's eye, and was certain that, for a split-second, something had twitched in the corner of his mouth as she gave him a very grateful look.

"But sir—"

"_Now_."

"Norah, I've never heard you talk like that before," Hermes whispered, looking slightly pleased as they made their way to the back table, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass unpinning their badges, looking resentful.

"Well, Professor Snape was right—that was a very vulgar thing to put on those badges," Norah said, frowning in dislike at the front of the classroom, where the other Slytherins were taking off their badges under the intense scrutiny of Snape: "You're _lovely_, Harriet—and you've never even been kissed."

"How do you know that?" Harriet asked, astounded.

"Well…everybody would know about it, wouldn't they—whoever it was who kissed you would probably go round singing '_I've kissed Harriet Potter_' at the top of their lungs," Norah said, and Hermes chuckled softly. It was the closest Harriet had got to being in a good mood for a week, rolling her eyes at Norah. They sat down—Lavender, Parvati and Rhona taking the table beside theirs only because the Slytherins had taken the ones nearest, and Seamus and Dean sat in front of them—and started unpacking their things.

"Antidotes!" Snape said, looking around at them all with maliciously glittering eyes. "You should all have prepared your recipes by now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then we will be selecting someone on whom to test one…" Harriet knew instantly who Snape's preferred victim would be—her. Only, when she glanced up to glare challengingly at him, he was sneering vindictively at Pansy Parkinson, who was busy rifling through her textbook.

* * *

A knock on the dungeon door halfway through the lesson made everyone look up, and Snape had to go and open the door: Yolande stood on the threshold, and only entered the room once Snape had invited her in: She shot a beam at Harriet, her face glowing as if illuminated by purest sunshine, and several of the boys sat up straighter.

"Monsieur Snape," she said, giving him a very pretty curtsey, "I 'ave been asked to collect Mademoiselle Potter by ze judges of ze Tournament." Snape's eyes flickered over the class, as if saying, '_That's how you do it_' and they settled on Harriet for a split-second.

"Miss Potter still has an hour and a half of lesson-time remaining, Miss Doré," he said curtly.

"Forgive me, sir, zey are wanting 'Arriet for ze Weighing of ze Wands," Yolande said courteously, eyes on the floor, hands clasped behind her back.

"Very well, take her," Snape sighed. "Miss Longbottom, you will attend to Potter's things, and make sure you do not _melt them_." Harriet felt Norah nodding, her face glowing both from embarrassment and the heat of the fire. Harriet hurried to pick up the remainder of her things, Hermes assuring her he'd get a phial of her almost-completed potion when it had stewed, and Harriet darted through the tables: _Harriet the Harlot __**Sucks**_ glowed as the passed the Slytherin girls, and Harriet ducked out of the classroom with Yolande.

"We 'ave not seen much of you since ze Quidditch on Dimanche—ah, excuse-moi!" Yolande said, laughing softly after she closed the dungeon door quietly. "Since _Sunday_. It is _incroyable_, no, zat you are to compete in ze Tournament. We are all, at Beauxbatons, _theenking_ zat you must be _très brave_ to take part zo you did not wish to compete."

"Oh…thanks…Yolande, what's the Weighing of the Wands?" Harriet asked, as they climbed the marble staircase, Yolande so elegantly that Harriet was reminded again that she had quite a few years between them.

"In truth? I 'ave no idea!" Yolande giggled, her lovely eyes dancing merrily. "But I am _theenking_ zat zey are wanting to take photographs also."

"For what?" Harriet squeaked.

"I am _theenking_ for ze newspaper 'ere, ze _Daily Prophet_," Yolande said. Harriet groaned.

"Wonderful," she moaned.

"'Ave you no _cosmétiques_?" Yolande asked, flicking her eyes over Harriet; all of the Beauxbatons girls were _always_ meticulously made-up, the boys very well turned-out. Harriet hadn't been bothering with makeup or her contact lenses purely out of sheer misery.

"Oh, I do," Harriet said, undoing the flap of her bag and reaching inside it to the little makeup bag Aunt Petunia had bought her over the summer: She hadn't been wearing makeup, and her hair was a mess, tugged into her usual messy plaits reminiscent of Sandra Bullock in _Practical Magic_, one of Daisy's favourite films, though it dealt with witches and magic.

Yolande paused for a few moments, ducking into the nearest girls' loos so that Harriet could use the mirror, quickly applying makeup to make her look a little closer to being worthy of being a champion, and then Yolande led her to the correct door.

"_Bonne_ _chance_!" she smiled, kissing Harriet's cheeks, and danced off on the balls of her feet in her little blue shoes, her curls bouncing merrily. Harriet knocked on the door and entered: it was a smaller classroom, most of the desks pushed to the back of the classroom, with several pushed beneath the chalkboard, which had been draped with the three banners of the participating schools, and the desks draped with a length of velvet. Mr Bagman sat at one of the five seats behind the velvet-draped desks talking to a woman with rigid platinum-blonde curls, wearing shocking magenta robes.

Viktoria was standing in a corner—she glanced up when Harriet entered the room and nodded in recognition; she was not one to _smile_, as Harriet had noticed she did not like to reveal she had an overbite. Cedric Diggory and Florent Delacour were talking by the window; Cedric laughed softly and Florent brushed his hand against him, as he had done the night the champions were chosen. Mr Bagman spotted Harriet teetering on the threshold and suddenly jumped to his feet, beaming.

"Ah, here she is! Champion number _four_," he said, leading Harriet into the room. "Nothing to look so worried about, Harriet, it's just the Wand Weighing Ceremony."

"The what?" Harriet asked nervously.

"The Wand Weighing—just to check that your wands are fully functional, as they are your most important utensils in the tasks ahead," Bagman smiled. "The expert's upstairs with Dumbledore now. And then we're going to have a photo-shoot, for the papers, you know—ah, yes, Harriet, this is Rita Skeeter. She'll be writing a small piece on the Tournament for the _Daily Prophet_…"

"Maybe not that small, Ludo," Rita Skeeter chuckled, her jewelled spectacles flashing as she examined Harriet's features ravenously. Her curly hair contrasted oddly with her heavy-jawed face, and Harriet noticed with a slight shiver that the fingernails of the thick fingers clutching a red crocodile-skin handbag were two inches long and painted crimson.

"I wonder if I could have a little word with Harriet, Ludo, before we start?" she asked, eyes fixed on Harriet's even as she addressed Mr Bagman. "Perspective of the youngest champion on what lies ahead, you know…to add a bit of colour?"

"Certainly—that's if, of course, Harriet has no objections," Bagman beamed.

"Um…" Harriet licked her lips nervously, "No, I s'pose not."

"Lovely," Rita Skeeter said, and in a second, her scarlet-taloned fingers had clamped around Harriet's upper-arm in a surprisingly strong grip, forcing her back out of the classroom and into a nearby door.

"We don't want to be in there with all that noise—all those people listening in on you," Skeeter smiled, tugging the door open. "Aah, yes, this is lovely and cosy. Come in, Harriet, sit down." She perched precariously on an upturned bucked in what was unmistakably a broom-cupboard: Harriet sat down and perched on a cardboard box full of Mrs Skower's No-Fuss Magical-Mess Remover. Skeeter snapped the doors shut, blanketing them in darkness. "Let's see now…"

From inside her purse, Harriet assumed, Skeeter brought out several candles, charmed them into midair and lit them. "You don't mind, Harriet dear, if I use a Quick-Quotes Quill, do you? It leaves me free to talk to you naturally…"

"Er—alright," Harriet said uneasily. "What's a Quick-Quotes Quill?" Skeeter just hummed, sucking on the tip of a long, acid-green quill with apparent relish, smiling at Harriet; she stretched a length of parchment across an upturned crate and set the tip of the Quick-Quotes Quill upon it.

"So, Harriet," Skeeter smiled, clasping her hands around her knee as she crossed her legs, peering over the rims of her jewelled glasses at Harriet, "_You're_ the juicy news these days, aren't you? Fourteen years old, Hogwarts champion, about to compete in a Tournament against three students not only vastly physically more mature than yourself, but who have mastered spells that _you_ haven't attempted in your _dizziest_ daydreams."

"One of the Hogwarts champions—"

"Hm-hm," Skeeter laughed softly. "So let's have a little chat, just between you and me. What quirks lurk beneath those rosy cheeks? What secrets does that scar conceal? Does lion's courage lie beneath those luscious locks? What makes a champion _tick_," she smiled, pressing the end of Harriet's nose with a soft giggle and a wink. Harriet was too distracted by the Quick-Quotes Quill, or rather, what it was scribbling; '_An ugly scar, souvenir of her tragic past, distracts from the otherwise strikingly beautiful face of Harriet Potter, the very picture of her late father, beloved member of the Order of the Phoenix, notorious troublemaker of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, yet whose eyes_—'

"Just ignore the quill, Harriet dear," Skeeter smiled. "Come on, let's have a little girl-talk. Why did you choose to enter the Tournament, Harriet?"

"Um—I didn't," Harriet said, feeling dread creep up her spine as she remembered what Amos Diggory had said over the summer, '_If Rita Skeeter gets her hands on this one_…" Well, she had her talons wedged into Harriet now! Skeeter giggled softly.

"'Course you didn't," she winked. "Everyone loves a rebel, Harriet! But then again, you're no ordinary girl of fourteen, are you? Your story's _legend_." Rita Skeeter's eyes flickered hungrily onto the scar on Harriet's forehead.

"Would you say the experiences in your past have prepared you for the tasks that lay ahead?" Rita asked, glancing down at the parchment, which was rapidly filling up.

"Um…Yes, I suppose they might've done," Harriet admitted: _They can't be worse than facing Voldemort_, she thought.

"Are you _excited_ at the prospect of participating?" Rita asked. "Or nervous? Do you reflect back now, nearing the first task, thinking that you may have made a mistake in entering your name?"

"I didn't enter—well, I don't really want to play at all," Harriet said, frowning. "I think Cedric Diggory deserves to win."

"Ah, yes, the second Hogwarts champion," Rita Skeeter smiled, leaning conspiratorially over the crate. "That _gorgeous_ _dish_ in the other room—rumour has it, Harriet, that you have a bit of a _thing_ for him."

"Er—he's always been very sweet to me," Harriet admitted, flushing; _How did _she_ find out about that?_

"Oh, come now, Harriet!" Rita Skeeter laughed delicately. "This is between _friends_. Do you think your parents would approve of him? Do you think they would find him a bad influence, you having entered into the Tournament to impress him? How do you reckon they would feel, now, knowing that you are entered and bound to compete in the Triwizard Tournament? Proud, angry, worried?" Rita and the Quill both actually paused for her answer.

"Um…well, I've heard that…I've heard that my dad would've entered the Tournament if he could," Harriet said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Someone said he'd be up there," she jabbed her thumb upwards, "making banners to support me…but he liked breaking rules when he was at school…and my mother would probably be tearing her hair out."

"Do you think it was the trauma of your past that made you want to enter into such a dangerous competition?" Rita asked. "Did you do it to prove yourself?"

"Um…No, not really," Harriet said, frowning. "I s'pose now I'm entered, I'd…I'd like to do the best I can, for their sake. I wouldn't want their sacrifices going to waste by getting quartered by a Chimaera."

Rita Skeeter giggled softly.

"Can you remember your parents at all?" Rita Skeeter asked, sombre again.

"A little bit," Harriet admitted, playing with her fingers. "Only the night they were murdered by Voldemort."

The Quick-Quotes Quill exploded.

Rita fell off her bucket.

"Oops!" Harriet said guiltily. "Here, let me help you—are you alright?" Rita Skeeter was spluttering for breath, the colour gone from her face in what little light the candles gave them. The cupboard was suddenly filled with light, and Rita, still splayed out over the crate, glanced up and crooned.

"Dumbledore!"

Harriet blinked in the bright light.

"I thought I heard your voice, Harriet," Dumbledore smiled, offering his hand, which she accepted out of the cramped cupboard. "Rita, is this the new interviewing technique!"

"Harriet just startled me is all, Dumbledore," Rita said, scrambling to her feet; Harriet noticed her tucking the parchment and Quick-Quotes Quill (which had turned black, and quite dead-looking) into her crocodile-skin handbag.

"Indeed? Am I to assume we shall read about it in the coming week?" Dumbledore smiled courteously. Rita Skeeter snapped the clasp of her handbag shut, and smiled; Harriet counted three gold teeth she hadn't noticed in the broom cupboard.

"The Weighing of the Wands is about to begin, though it cannot take place if one of our esteemed champions is hidden in a broom cupboard," Dumbledore smiled, gesturing towards the classroom; Rita Skeeter tottered away on jaunty high heels and Harriet followed Dumbledore into the room, trying to smooth the plaits she'd redone in the bathroom earlier.

* * *

**A.N.**: I love Miranda Richardson in the film! Queenie!

* * *


	47. The Weighing of the Wands

**A.N.**: And this chapter goes with the last, so I have to update them together! I'm debating whether to upload a lot of chapters, as I _may_ not be logging on for a while—I'm moving down to Plymouth University, into my accommodation, so it might take me a little while for the world to right itself!

* * *

**The Weighing of the Wands**

* * *

"May I introduce," said Dumbledore warmly, taking his place at the judge's table in the centre, under the Hogwarts banner, "Mr Ollivander." Harriet jumped, having taken her seat beside Viktoria Krum and Cedric, glancing over at the window and recognising the old, silvery-eyed man, tall and thin. "He will be checking your wands to ensure they are in their most excellent condition before the Tournament begins."

Mr Ollivander stepped into the centre of the room, which was quite empty.

"Monsieur Delacour, if you could join me, please," Mr Ollivander said politely. Florent Delacour swept over to Mr Ollivander and handed him his wand with great decorum.

"Hmm…." He twirled it between his long fingers like a baton, and it emitted a number of silver and blue sparks. He held it close to his eyes and examined it carefully.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully, "nine and a half inches…inflexible…rosewood…and containing…dear me!"

"An 'air from ze 'ead of a Veela," Florent said, tossing his silvery blonde hair, catching Cedric's eye and smiling. "One of my grandmuzzer's." Harriet raised her eyebrows; Viktoria Krum nudged her inconspicuously and Harriet glanced at her. She flicked her dark eyes between Florent and Cedric, and fluttered her eyelashes comically. Harriet hid her smile as she sat up straighter, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"Yes…Yes, I've never _used_ Veela hair myself, of course," Mr Ollivander said politely. "I find it makes for rather temperamental wands…"

"The Quidditch World Cup," Harriet whispered to Viktoria, who winked.

"…however, to each his own, I say, and if this suits you…" Mr Ollivander ran his fingers over the wand, checking for scratches or bumps; Harriet glanced at her own wand, and enfolded it in her robes, to smooth away the many fingerprints on it. Mr Ollivander made a fountain of wine shoot from the tip of Florent's wand, and handed it back to her; "Very well, very well, it's in fine working order. Mr Diggory, you next."

Florent glided back to his seat, smiling handsomely at Cedric as he passed; anger and jealousy boiled in her stomach, rather like having eaten too much hot soup, and Harriet glared at Florent as he sat down elegantly, swishing his silvery hair. How did a _boy_ end up being prettier than her? It was most injust.

"Ah, now, _this_ is one of mine!" Mr Ollivander said, with much more enthusiasm, when Cedric had handed over his wand. "Yes, I remember…containing a single hair from the tail of a particularly magnificent male unicorn…must have been seventeen hands; nearly gored me with his horn after I plucked his tail! Twelve and a quarter inches…ash…pleasantly springy…It's in fine condition. You treat it regularly?"

"I polished it last night," Cedric grinned. Mr Ollivander sent a stream of silver smoke-rings across the room—Harriet sat up straighter, remembering the last man she'd seen conjure them, and for a second, Cedric sought her eye and held it. But Mr Ollivander declared himself satisfied and handed Cedric his wand back.

"Miss Krum, if you please," Ollivander said, and Viktoria heaved herself out of her seat with a sigh, handed Ollivander her wand, and stood with her arms crossed over her chest, scowling. "This is a Gregorovitch creation, if I am not mistaken? A fine wand-maker, though the styling is never quite what I…however…" As he had done with Florent's and Cedric's wands, Ollivander examined Viktoria's in minute detail with his strange glowing eyes.

"Yes…hornbeam and dragon heartstring?" he shot at Viktoria, who nodded. "Rather thicker than one usually sees…quite rigid. Ten and a quarter inches…_Avis_!" Harriet jumped as the hornbeam wand let out a blast like a gun and several twittering birds flew out of the end, out of the open window into the watery November sunlight.

"Good," Ollivander said, handing Viktoria her wand back, and turning his glowing eyes onto Harriet, smiling broadly. "Which leaves… Miss _Potter_." Harriet got to her feet and smiled at Viktoria as they passed, and handed over her wand.

"_Aaaaaah_, yes," Ollivander sighed covetously, his pale eyes gleaming as he flicked the wand between his fingers—a stream of scarlet and gold sparks emitted from the wand, sending sparks of light dancing off the walls, just as they had done the first day Harriet had ever held that wand in her hand. "Yes, yes, yes, how _well_ I remember."

Harriet smiled uneasily; she remembered the day, too, four summers ago, on her eleventh birthday; Hagrid had taken her to buy her first wizards' products: Ollivander had taken Harriet's measurements and started handing her wands to try: the more wands she tried, whilst making her feel desperate she would never find the right one, made Ollivander ecstatic, until he'd found the "unusual combination…holly and phoenix tail-feather…eleven inches long…nice and supple," Ollivander smiled, bending and flexing the wand so it sprang back, smiling.

The 'curious' thing about Harriet's wand was, of course, the fact that the phoenix who had supplied its tail-feather to Harriet's wand had supplied one other—the core of Lord Voldemort's wand, the very wand that had killed Harriet's parents and gave her the scar on her forehead. Harriet had never told anybody this, because as far as she was concerned, her wand's affiliation with Voldemort's was something it couldn't help any more than Harriet could help being related to Aunt Petunia. Mr Ollivander had said that "_we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter_." Harriet didn't quite think he meant she'd enter into the Triwizard Tournament, but for a while it was a nice thought, to think that the only time she would ever be in danger was during three strictly-organised tasks.

Mr Ollivander spent much longer examining Harriet's wand than any of the other champions' wands. Eventually, however, he muttered, "Lileous!" and a bunch of burgundy-striped lilies (her favourites) burst from her wand. _I'll have to remember that_, she thought, as Mr Ollivander scooped up the lilies and handed them with her wand back to Harriet, smiling.

"Thank you _all_," Dumbledore smiled, standing up again. He had been watching Ollivander examine Harriet's wand with particular attentiveness. "You may go back to your lessons now—or perhaps it would be quicker just to go down to dinner, as they are about to end—"

The photographer hopped forward, clearing his throat. Harriet groaned softly and let her shoulders slump as Bagman bounded forward excitedly. "Photos, Dumbledore, photos! All the champions and the judges, what do you think, Rita?"

"Er—yes, let's do those first," said Rita Skeeter, tucking another sheaf of parchment into her handbag and teetering over to the photographer on her precarious gold pencil-heels. "And then perhaps some individual shots," she added, seemingly as an afterthought, her eyes on Harriet.

The photographs took a long time—everywhere she stood, Madame Maxime cast everyone else in shadow, and the photographer couldn't stand far enough back to get her into the frame. While the adults tried to figure out positions, Harriet split the lilies with Viktoria, who smiled softly and smelt them; they smelt absolutely _divine_.

"Where're mine?" Cedric teased: he seemed to be in a very good mood.

"Boys don't like flowers!" Harriet smiled, feeling the edge she had towards Cedric warm up a little. Cedric pouted adorably and fluttered his thick lashes and Harriet handed him one of her lily-stems. He clamped the stalk in his mouth, grinning; the girls laughed. Viktoria caught her eye when Harriet drew back, the sting of Cedric's disbelief in her starting to redouble in intensity again as Florent commandeered all Cedric's attention, and gave her a sympathetic glance.

Eventually, it was settled that Madame Maxime would sit whilst the others all stood around her: Florent Delacour kept trying to get into a position of greater prominence in the photograph, but Rita Skeeter kept grabbing Harriet by her robes and forcing her to stagger to the front. Karkaroff kept twirling the little curl at the end of his goatee and Madame Maxime kept adjusting her magnificent opals. Florent Delacour preened and Viktoria sulked. Cedric just waited, patient and polite as ever.

Rita Skeeter insisted of photographs of just the champions, and then—"These ones in colour, Bozo…the _eyes_," she said to the photographer, staring avidly at Harriet—individual shots. Florent struck his pose magnificently, gazing amorously through his eyelashes and smiling coyly at the photographer: Viktoria looked only mildly interested in having her photograph taken, and Harriet remembered the posters of her she'd seen at the Quidditch World Cup. Rita Skeeter flirted with Cedric as his photograph was taken, and when it was Harriet's turn, Rita Skeeter took her glasses away.

Harriet glanced at the camera, smiling embarrassedly, feeling her cheeks flush as everyone watched her have her photograph taken; she glanced through her lashes and smiled as the photographer flashed the camera at her. Then, at last, they were all free to go: Florent and Cedric strode downstairs ahead of Harriet and Viktoria.

"He is vorking too hard to haff Diggory admire him," Viktoria remarked quietly, as they watched Florent laughing and brushing Cedric's shoulder with one of his delicate white hands.

"He only likes him because he's _handsome_," Harriet said, glaring vindictively down at Florent's shiny blonde hair. _He's a poof_, she thought, glowering.

"My friends, they are all liking to be looking at him also," Viktoria said, smiling.

"I like looking at him too," Harriet sighed wistfully, feeling her chest ache as she watched Cedric's trousers swish over his bum. "But I don't like him just because of that…he was always very kind to me...before now."

"Yes—He is very polite to us, even though ve are from Durmstrang—vith Karkaroff." Viktoria's dislike of her High Master was evident once again; Harriet took it in her stride. "I am thinking he is only smiling for you, though, ven ve are having our photographs taken. He looks at you very often."

"…doesn't," Harriet mumbled, shaking her head, though she felt a pleasant flush in her cheeks and her insides lifted a few inches.

"He does—I haff noticed, ven the others are unkind to you—he is very sad ven it happens," Viktoria said, but Harriet shook her head, feeling happier than she had in a long time. They entered the Great Hall, and Harriet sat down alongside Norah, who was talking excitedly with Dmitry as they read _Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and their Properties_. The chicken, bacon, leek and mushroom pie for dinner, usually one of her favourites, was not enough to distract her from something that blazed red from every other House table. _Harriet the Harlot __**Sucks**_ glared at her everywhere she looked. Her cheeks flaming, she applied herself to her dinner, but the badges had caught the attention of the others. Hermes pointedly kept his back turned to the other House tables, though the chatter grew louder when Harriet had arrived.

"Vat are they saying?" Sasha asked, frowning scrutinisingly at a group of Ravenclaws sitting close by.

"Something very unkind," Norah said quietly, glancing, troubled, at Harriet.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review!

* * *


	48. Harriet's First Year

**A.N.**: Okay—I have to give an explanation/apology about why/how the description of the photograph-journal is so long! I got really _bored_ and I kind of went off on a tangent, thinking up things that might've happened to the Potters when Harriet was a baby, when they were full-time fighters in the Order and everything, how they reacted to having Harriet. So that's why the description is so long, but the bit about Cedric is important. And Norah, I suppose!

* * *

**Harriet's First Year**

* * *

The next morning was the one that Rita Skeeter chose to publish her article on the Triwizard Tournament—and it turned out not so much as a commentary on the champions as a very colourful life-story of Harriet: She had Harriet saying things Harriet couldn't ever remember saying in her life, let alone in that dark broom-cupboard. Worst of all—she knew about Cedric. Harriet listened to Hermes reading it aloud, cringing with every sentence, every '_quote'_ making her feel an inch smaller; by the time Hermes finished reading, she was sunk so low on her bench that they could only see the top of her head, and her face was burning with more humiliation than Harriet had ever felt, even at the hands of the Dursleys.

"Oh! I'm mentioned—'_Harriet has at last found love at Hogwarts: A close friend, Colin Creevey, says that Harriet is rarely out of the company of one Hermes Granger, a handsome Muggle-born who, like Harriet, is one of the top students in the school_'…Oh dear, she has a very great talent for spinning, doesn't she," Hermes sighed, after finishing the _Daily Prophet_ article (which continued on pages two, six and seven, with most of the front page devoted to a colour photograph of Harriet, grinning sheepishly) and folded it neatly. He peered over his teacup at Harriet, whose eyes only peeked over the tabletop. She could hear the rustle of hundreds of newspapers, heard the sharp upswing in noise, the unkind laughter that swept through the Hall, and as she left the Hall after breakfast, glad it wasn't a school-day, people quoted, loudly, particularly long and nasty sentences from the article.

* * *

On Saturday evening, Snape cornered her for another Occlumensy lesson: She didn't even have the strength to even fight back, and half an hour later, when he had seen basically Harriet's life-story played out before his eyes in a constant stream, Snape threw his hands up in despair.

"_Concentrate_, Potter!"

"I _can't_," Harriet cried, tears splashing down her face. She sank into her chair, shoulders slumped, feeling utterly drained and defeated, wishing the floor would cave in and swallow her up. Retreating to the life of a hermit down in the Chamber of Secrets had a lot of appeal. At least no one but a Parselmouth could get down there. She sat crying silently for a few minutes before she heard Snape sigh.

"That's enough for this evening, Potter," he said quietly, and Harriet nodded miserably, her lip trembling, as she picked up her bag and wiped her cheeks on her jumper as she moved to the door.

"Goodnight, Professor," she whimpered softly, ducking out of the study, and made her way upstairs, avoiding the main school as much as possible, sticking to the hidden passages.

* * *

The level of nastiness towards her took a sharp upswing—she had _never_ had to deal with harassment like this on such a level. Every night she dissolved into tears behind the confines of her four-poster (using '_Muffliato'_ on the other girls, a particularly useful spell Sirius taught her) because of what people kept saying about her: Sirius spent a lot of time hugging her and stroking her hair, trying to calm her down. She couldn't go out of the common room without people quoting the article at her, people still hadn't forgiven her for having her name come out of the Goblet, _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY_ badges flashed on everyone's robes and now there were posters and banners to match, and Rhona was going out of her way to be unkind, prompting Lavender and Parvati to make snide comments, which Pansy Parkinson thought was fantastic.

"Bonjour 'Arriet," someone cooed, and Yolande smiled, sauntering over in her lovely, flattering forget-me-not silk robes, her eyes lingering contemptuously on Pansy Parkinson. Harriet found it very difficult to smile; Yolande kissed her cheeks and walked off to Charms with Isabelle and Cécile, who both looked at the other girls (Lavender, Parvati, and Rhona) as if they were congealed Bubotubers. Harriet had noticed something; the French girls were _superb_ at fighting _like girls_. Whilst Hermes kept stealing her wand before the end of lessons so she couldn't resort to cursing people who upset her, and Norah walked arm-in-arm so she couldn't fling her fist at anyone, Harriet couldn't fight back against the torrent of torment that had swept her up. But the girls from Beauxbatons _knew_ how to fight like girls, and they fought fire with fire, and Harriet was very glad to have the majority of them as allies—Florent and Noelle not included.

"Want a hanky, Potter, in case you start crying in Transfiguration?"

"Since when have you been one of the '_top students in the school_', Potter, or is this a school you and Longbottom have set up together?"

"Hey—Harriet!"

Some of the pent-up anger burst forth and she whirled around, glowering dangerously, and shouted, "_Yes, that's right_! I've just been crying my eyes out over my dead mother, and I'm just off to do a bit more…"

"No—it's just…You left your book in Charms."

It was Cedric. Harriet felt the heat leave her face and the rest of her body, for that matter; she felt ill, and humiliated, and she really _did_ want to go and cry a bit. She licked her lips and glanced at the book Cedric held in his outstretched hand.

"Oh…yeah," she whispered hoarsely, and took the book. She glanced up at Cedric briefly, murmured, "Thanks," and fled, feeling more horrible than she had the rest of the day, which was saying something. She hadn't seen Cedric face-to-face since Rita Skeeter had published that article, in which she had written—'_Fourteen years old, and suffering the pangs of unrequited love, the young and vivacious Harriet Potter decided to put her name into the Goblet of Fire, with the hope that, if she won the Tournament, she would impress the object of her desires, one Cedric Diggory_.'

* * *

She had to silently endure the taunts and snide comments from Rhona, Parvati and Lavender during Divination, and each time someone sniped at her horribly in the corridors—in particular her Potions lessons with the Slytherins and Care of Magical Creatures, it was like another knife slicing into her; she fell asleep crying in Sirius's arms most nights, and slept fitfully; more than once he'd had to wake her in the night because she'd been thrashing around, because of her horrible dreams. He disappeared, though, at the end of the week, with Professor Dumbledore—together or apart, she didn't know, neither had given her warning of their departure from Hogwarts.

The only good thing that happened, a week after Rita Skeeter's article had come out, was that Harriet received a letter from Bathilda Bagshot via Nincompoop at breakfast, along with an enormous box carried by a handsome eagle owl. Harriet stared at the box. It was the size of about four shoeboxes put together and tied together with string: Harriet recognised the neat knots tied in it, and undid them painstakingly, biting her lip and wondering what she would find inside the box. She opened the lid and peeked inside. _Surely it can't be that big_, she thought, staring down into the bathtub-sized interior of the box: like the tent at the Quidditch World Cup, enchantments had been placed on the box to create wizard space.

Looking down, she recognised piles of photograph albums, stacks of books, crates filled with fluffy stuff, shielding delicate figurines and vases and pretty, breakable photograph frames; there were stacks of those, handmade blankets and quilts, embroidered cushion-covers and a small box of dolls and toys and a large, beautiful dollhouse made in exact replica of a little thatched cottage with diamond-paned windows and a beautiful front garden. There was a small, gleaming walnut Corinthian casket with a tiny gold keyhole; there were boxes of photographs and letters and pretty teacups that were shaped like blossoming flowers, and there was a very pretty carved cradle and a box filled with small trinkets. She put the lid back on and opened the letter.

* * *

_Dear Harriet,_

_Dear Remus showed me the article Rita Skeeter wrote on you last week: we both agreed that any child of Lily and James's would __never__ flop around swooning and crying like a limp Tentacula._

_I've had Remus searching through the attic all week trying to find something I think will cheer you up._

_When they went away, Dumbledore's orders were that no-one were to go in your parents' house. Well, your daddy gave his orders fist: His sweetheart was to have all her mummy's treasures. So I went into that ruined cottage anyway, and collected everything I could that belonged to your parents. I never knew the right occasion to send them to you, but Remus thought you might be having a rough time of it with all those students making fun of you, so I thought I'd have him send them now._

_Good luck with the first task—Remus says you are a more than capable witch; do you parents proud, and don't listen to what that trussed up little tart Rita Skeeter says._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Bathilda Bagshot_.

* * *

Everything in the box belonged to her parents—it was all she had of them. Harriet took the lid off and gazed down into the box again; she reached down, further than she expected, and took the doll in the pram. She was an old cloth doll with a painted china face, her dress ragged and beloved, the brightness of the stitching embroidering lilies onto the dress contrasting the faded material; her hair was of softest yarn, black, and pulled into two saffron-red plaits; she had green eyes painted on her pale face and as Harriet picked her up, they started to blink slowly, a delicate little smile turning the lips up happily at the corners. It was _Lil_. She didn't know how she knew, she just did. She _remembered_ this dolly.

Harriet ran her box and Bathilda's letter upstairs, and went to classes; she was so distracted by wanting to go through the contents of the box that she couldn't concentrate in Charms on her Summoning Charm, which she still had a block on. Hermes was almost beyond desperate that she couldn't perform it, but she was too distracted and filled with anticipation to care. She waited the entire day, and ran up to her dormitory after dinner.

She reached for the first photograph album on the tall pile and found it to be '_Harriet's First Year_'.

_Our little sweetheart_, was the first caption, below a large photograph just of Harriet's tiny little face and her tiny little hand, within the folds of a delicate, warm shawl, eyes closed and sleeping blissfully. _Harriet Lily Potter, born at 2:36 a.m. on the morning of the thirty-first of July, 1995 after twenty-three hours of labour. She weighed six pounds, two ounces, and wasn't at all fussed about being born. In the photograph, she is an hour old: Harriet's Uncle Padfoot took the photograph. He said our little blossom looked like a squashed chicken. Lily cursed him._ _I maintain that she was delirious with pain and didn't know what she was doing, of course, but Padfoot disagrees. _Harriet traced her fingers over the lettering. Harriet didn't recognise the handwriting, but they made their r's the same way as she did. She turned the page. _Little Norah Longbottom arrived into the world at 12:51p.m. in the afternoon of the thirty-first of July: Harriet's first little friend_.

There was another photograph on the next page: a round-faced, smiling woman with curling blonde hair beamed at the photograph, tired but thrilled, with a lovely little baby cradled in her arms: Norah Longbottom as a baby had been blonde, with curling hair already covering her head, and enormous blue eyes that blinked sleepily. _Alice's little angel—five hours of labour, Norah is absolutely lovely; she and Harriet make a very sweet pair_. Another photograph, of the two little babies together; Norah, blonde and blue-eyed, Harriet, with sparse black hair as dark as her father's, with large, almond-shaped green eyes, side-by-side in a large cradle.

_Blossom's first visitors! They arrived not five hours after Harriet was born! Of course, as soon as Harriet was born we moved briefly to Headquarters just in case, but we'll be returning to Godric's Hollow soon, if Gideon and Fabian let us have her back! Lily's worried they'll steal her for themselves and take her to live with their sister, Molly—apparently she has five boys now and a daughter a few months older than Harriet: They're already planning to set Harriet up with either of the twins or Charlie, who's very jolly, we've met him! There's a photograph of him with Lily somewhere_. There was a photograph of the entire Order of the Phoenix, with the tiny loaf of bread that was Harriet cradled in Dumbledore's arms, two red-haired identical twins, very handsome and very like the Weasley twins, cooing to her and grinning over Dumbledore's shoulder.

_Harriet's first bath_, someone had written. There was a photograph of James and Sirius, both whole, handsome, grinning from ear to ear, in a small bathroom with panelled walls, a wooden floor and a standalone bathtub, Sirius holding her in his hands in the tub whilst James washed her with a little washcloth. Someone else had written, under the photograph: _They forgot to take little Poppet's socks off!_ This handwriting was different to the first note and Harriet made her g's the same way; the calligraphy was a lot more feminine. Harriet sat up straighter: Here it was, _proof_ that Lily Potter had lived, had really _lived_, that her warm hand had once moved across this page, smoothing the photograph in place and delicately tracing ink into these letters, these words, words about her, Harriet, her only daughter. And James—she went back to the first page: this was _James's_ handwriting. Proof that he, also, had lived and loved her. She sought out every 'r' and 'g' in the book, her heart fluttering each time she found one: they were each like tiny, friendly little waves as if glimpsed from behind a veil.

Sirius had been there when she was born—he had taken the photograph within an hour of her birth. He'd called her a '_squashed chicken_.' The Prewett brothers thought Harriet would be a good match for Fred, George or Charlie Weasley? She'd have to show this to Mrs Weasley, she thought, smiling to herself and chuckling softly. She turned the page again.

_Our sweetheart's first little smile, aged three days, just after her Christening: The first and last time Harriet ever saw Lily's parents_, James had written on the next page: there was a photograph of her, a few days old, dressed in little pink robes, wrapped in a delicate shawl; she blinked indolently and smiled lazily at the camera, reaching her tiny little hand out of the folds of the shawl and waving vaguely; she already had green eyes in this photograph. There was another photograph: Harriet, in the arms of an auburn-haired, twinkly-eyed man in his early fifties who looked, to Harriet, to be ill, with a lovely emerald-eyed woman who looked a little like Aunt Petunia but a lot lovelier standing beside them, her hand offered to Harriet, who had curled her tiny fingers around one of her grandmother's. She stared at her grandparents for a little while: Even Aunt Petunia had no photographs of them in her house. Lily had been her father's daughter, with her mother's eyes. The same as Harriet. She turned the page;

_Harriet's first Halloween—Alice came over with Norah while Frank was away; they wanted to take the girls out Trick-or-Treating with the Muggle children (free sweets; Padfoot came over after his work for the Order dressed as the Vampire Lestat—he thought Norah should be Claudia: Alice smacked him, and didn't think Norah should be a baby vampire, even an imaginary one!) so we got the girls all dressed up: Lily wanted Harriet to be Maid Marian, so she made her this fabulous dress like the one the actress wears at the end of _Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves_, the first film Lil took me to see, and also the little dress for Norah, who was a princess, and she looked very convincing! I made Norah her little tiara of golden bubbles (she loved it!) and I conjured Harriet's little crown of wheat and berries and things, and she had a little white veil and looked absolutely lovely! Everyone we met thought the girls were so sweet and charming and Lily was so proud of the costumes, as they were absolutely exquisite. Padfoot got a bundle of free sweets. I think he thinks we did it mostly for him! The girls are too young to know what's going on!_

There were several photographs of Halloween: the most comic of all was Sirius's Muggle rendition of a vampire costume, with a cape and plastic fangs, sitting splay-legged on the parlour floor, frowning over the hoard of Muggle sweets and picking out the ones he wanted. Lily sat in her little armchair, laughing and holding Harriet and Norah in her lap, dressed as a devil with sequined red horns on a headband and a sparkly red set of robes, Alice Longbottom dressed as an angel, perched on the arm of the chair.

_Harriet's first little gossip: James put Harriet down to nap with Norah and Alice was sure she heard something in Harriet's little room: Harriet and Norah were both lying in the cot, gossiping happily with each other, and whenever either stopped baby-talking, they started giggling! They're both three and a half months old now. We're all sure they'll be great friends, as they'll be in the same class at Hogwarts_. There was a photograph of Harriet lying in her cot, in a pink little bodysuit with fine black hair brushed neatly, beside Norah, who was a little bigger, round-faced with magnificent saucer-sized _dark_ eyes now, dressed in little mauve robes, below a fairy and golden-bubble mobile, and there were soft murmurs and faint giggles from the photograph.

_Guy Fawkes' Night: The Muggles in the village celebrate on the fifth of November, Lily told me, something about rebels trying to blow up the Muggle Houses of Parliament, but they got caught! The Muggles had a big bonfire and a firework display in one of the outlying fields: We went out as a treat for Lily; she's been so tired lately, breast-feeding every few hours during the night! Harriet absolutely loved the fireworks, though the loud bangs made Norah cry; Lily had a caramel-apple like her parents used to get her when they went to these firework displays when she was a child: I think it cheered her up to share this with me and Harriet._ There was a photograph of Lily, James and Harriet in his arms, beaming at the camera, set against a roaring bonfire. She turned the page:

_Harriet scared the life out of us after the firework display: There were minor explosions coming from her room, and we thought she was being attacked—James and I ran in and she was just sitting in the cot, watching glittering explosions bouncing off the walls and ceiling of her room! It was the first time she's used magic: We were both absolutely thrilled, once the adrenaline and shock had worn off!_ Harriet, beaming sheepishly from her cot, was surrounded by sprays of lovely glittering fireworks of gold and crimson bouncing off the walls of her tiny bedroom.

_The first time James slept through the night! Harriet is almost four months old now_: There was a photograph of a very cosy little bedroom, dominated by a large bed mounded over with a handmade gold quilt and a crocheted crimson blanket: James lay in bed, completely out of it against the pillows; snuggled up in his arms as he lay on his side was a little ball of something purple: Harriet, in a purple bodysuit with an Abraxan horse on the front, sucking her fingers and her little fist curled around the sleeve of her dad's t-shirt.

_Harriet sat up today: She's still a little wobbly-head but she's ours, and she was so pleased with herself! She's four months and two days old now_, Lily had written: Harriet, in this photograph dressed in a little green bodysuit with an emerald-green dragon on the chest, rolled into the photograph; she had a shock of black hair now with a little green-flowered headband, and she gazed at someone beyond the photographer, and pulled herself up into a sitting position: her head indeed wobbled but she beamed, dimples winking in her cheeks, absolutely chuffed.

_Sirius came over today: Harriet is five months old. As soon as Uncle Padfoot entered the parlour, Harriet looked around and cooed delightedly, grabbed hold of the Lily's knee and pulled herself off the floor: Look, she's standing—she looks like she's been hit by a Jelly-Legs Jinx, but she's still absolutely fabulous! Padfoot was thrilled: He absolutely adores her: Lil and I think he should have a little girl of his own, maybe she'll make an honest man of him! He says he'll only risk having children if he can be assured of getting a little girl as lovely as Harriet: I told him, if it's _his_ little girl, there's no chance: She'd be terrifyingly beautiful and absolutely atrociously talented. We can't have any of that!_

Harriet did indeed look like she'd been hit by a Jelly-Legs Jinx: She clung to the knee of her mother's jeans and wobbled a bit, but she reached her other hand out, grinning from ear to ear and giggling, and Sirius—young, handsome Sirius, in a really rad leather jacket and jeans, heavy biker boots and silver rings flashing on his long fingers, skidded down to her level on his hands and knees, leaning in to kiss her. Baby Harriet beamed and giggled as he kissed her and touched his face, smiling.

_Harriet's six month mark: Gideon and Fabian came over with baby sweets from Honeydukes for Harriet, and Rosmerta's mulled mead for us: Gideon gave her a magnificent little model of an Opaleye dragon: Harriet loves it, and Fabian gave her a tiny delicate gold love-knot ring for when she's older: Lily's put it in the chest for all Harriet's treasures she's to have. They sat playing with her for hours with the big cardboard box Sirius brought by that his new motorcycle parts had come in; Harriet _loves_ that box! Lily and I reckon Harriet was the last person they kissed goodbye when they left after supper: They were killed hours after they left us. Lily and I both cried all day when Sirius came to tell us what had happened in the morning: I've never seen him so shocked._

_Sirius came over again today: After what's happened to Gideon and Fabian (Only I managed to get to the funeral, under the Invisibility Cloak: Lily stayed in Godric's Hollow with Harriet) he's becoming frantic. He calms down when Harriet's with him, though, I think we all do: It isn't good to be upset around her, as she's curiously in tune to what's going on and gets herself into a state if she thinks we're unhappy. Harriet's seven and a half months old now. Today, she discovered mirrors: She's _definitely_ Padfoot's goddaughter! Padfoot reckons she's going to be a great beauty—even if there's too much of me in her! With Lily's emeralds, I don't doubt it! We've put a mirror on the floor in the parlour; Harriet loves staring at herself, she's kept entertained for hours! _There were two photographs; in the first, the mirror was on the floor, Harriet on her hands and knees on top of it, staring down: the second was of Harriet and Sirius reflected in a mirror, propped up against the fireplace; Harriet with a dummy in her mouth, had her hand splayed out on the glass, peering closely at the person she saw reflected there.

_The McKinnons! We had such a riot when Marlene and her kids came over: The little girls absolutely adored their new little dolly (Harriet was very well-behaved and let them play dress-up with her for hours on end without complaint!) and Marlene's little boy loved the tea-set Lily got from her mother when she passed away: His birthday's next week; Lily's already sent off for a tea-set for Stuart-Gordon for his very own! Poor boy, he's only two, but he has three elder sisters!_ Marlene McKinnon was a smiling oval-faced brunette woman, with three very lovely daughters aged under ten years old, dressed alike in lovely little lace frocks, their hair swept up with large bows, smiling on the sofa with Harriet on the eldest girl's lap: Stuart-Gordon rested on the sofa beside her, kissing her cheek and holding her little hand with his pudgy little one.

_Edgar brought his family to see us last week; Harriet's now ten months old and Sirius has taught her how to beg for kisses!_ Lily had written: Harriet saw the photograph of herself as a ten-month-old baby, tugging her dummy out of her mouth, and puckering her lips expectantly. _She doesn't need to beg for long, though, Malcolm Bones and little Anabel both love her_…_ This was the last photograph anyone took of the Bones family: They were killed last night. _Edgar Bones and his wife, both tall, haughtily good-looking and smiling, stood behind the sofa where their children, Malcolm and Anabel, who was red-haired and resembled her cousin Susan Bones, sat with Harriet between them, all grinning amiably.

_Moony visited! The first time he's come to see Harriet since she was a newborn: He's been underground (literally) and I think he's wanted to stay away for fear of hurting Harriet, no matter what I say to the contrary: he came by just after his transformation, with a lovely little picture-book for Harriet and a bag of chocoballs: Lily wouldn't have Remus avoiding touching Harriet, and dumped Harriet in his lap. He warmed up to Harriet, though, they all do! She sat in his lap and looked at the pictures in the book Moony had brought her: She's developed a taste for chocoballs now! So she'll definitely be a good friend to Moony and keep him in chocolate!_

There were two photographs: Remus, looking very much younger, though still tired, sitting in an armchair with Harriet cradled in his lap, both looking down at a small children's picture-book; Harriet was sucking on her dummy and pointing out things in the drawings, glancing up at Remus for him to tell her what they were. The second photograph had Harriet standing in Remus's lap, a hand on his shoulder for balance, her mouth open to eat the stuffing of a chocoball Remus had opened for her. She ate it and beamed, putting her hand on Remus's mouth and leaning forward to give him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, which made him smile.

_12__th__ June: James went out yesterday for the Order, to Hogsmeade: It's Bette Jezebel in the photograph, with her little boy: Cedric, he's almost four years old, his birthday's October 18__th__, Bette admitted when James asked, and he's very handsome already… Just like his father. Bette forbade us from telling Padfoot, but I don't think James _can_ keep a secret like this, not from his best-friend. At least we know now why she ran away to Amos, to protect her little boy…_ Mrs Diggory, young and extraordinarily beautiful, wearing a strange, rock-star ensemble of both Muggle and magical garments, stood in the Hogsmeade square, smiling but looking very nervous, the hand of a little boy clutched in hers: dark-haired with lovely eyes and very pretty eyelashes, three-year-old Cedric smiled bashfully at the camera and hid his face in her mother's skirts coyly. James walked into the photograph with a little bag of sweets from Honeydukes and Cedric peered into it interestedly, smiling. _James says he's a very sweet boy, coy like Bette, and kissed the photograph of Harriet James gave to Bette._

Harriet sat staring at that page for quite a little while. Her mother called Ella Diggory 'Bette Jezebel,' she said that they were forbidden from telling Sirius about Cedric, that Mrs Diggory 'ran away' to Mr Diggory to protect Cedric…That didn't make any sense at all; she moved on.

_Alice had us over at Headquarters this week! She'd made a lovely cake for the girls, who are both getting so big now, we couldn't believe the photos of when they were born! It seems so long ago now! Everyone who could be there showed up for some cake and Butterbeer._

_Isn't this photograph comic! Dumbledore came by: Harriet absolutely loves his half-moon glasses! She kept falling over when he let her wear them, but it was lovely to hear her giggles filling up the cottage! He comes by quite often to check up on us, I think he's growing rather attacked to little Blossom: He always brings little things for her, and makes the most beautiful things from his wand in front of her eyes. I think she's fascinated with him! Aren't we all, though!_ James wrote, and the photograph was of Harriet, tiny and smooth and with only a fair bit of fine black hair neatly combed, in her bright little bodysuit, with the little moving model of the Opaleye dragon in her lap, whilst she sat smiling behind her dummy on Dumbledore's knee; he seemed criminally old compared to her in the photo, as he sat creating sparkling silvery-white shapes—magical animals, a whole menagerie of them—before her very eyes. _Dumbledore took my Cloak with him when he left—he seemed so curious about it—but it means now that I'll have to stay in the house pretty much at all times. Luckily Harriet's still as lovely as ever and she keeps us both entertained._

The next photograph was the same one Remus had sent in with his letter: _Harriet's first birthday—Bathilda came over, as she does most days—and we had a very lovely little tea_, Lily wrote. _James was disappointed that Padfoot couldn't come over, but, as it's James, he was absolutely thrilled by the present Padfoot sent his little goddaughter: a miniature broom. Harriet loves it, and looks so pleased with herself zooming around the parlour, even though the broom only rises about two feet off the floor! She terrified the cat and smashed a vase Petunia sent me, and James is raving more than ever that Harriet will be a fantastic Quidditch player—he's got his sights set on the English National team for her!_ The other photograph was comical: Harriet, a year old and in tiny little wizards' robes of garnet-red, zoomed around on a tiny broomstick, only two feet off the floor: James was running after her, grinning from ear to ear, as she zoomed around, making the black cat leap off the back of the sofa; Lily was crying with laughter at the sight of them, beaming beautifully.

_Harriet loves her baths! Norah came over again for a play-date in August and they got so mucky! We had to strip them down and dump them in the bath. James was incorrigible as usual and gave them the beards!_ Harriet and baby Norah sat in the bath, with mountains of bubbles, their faces covered with stiff bubble-beards and moustaches: Harriet's was a handsome walrus moustache; Norah had a full beard like Professor Dumbledore. They were both grinning and giggling, splashing in the water.

_It's almost Halloween again! Harriet's grown a bit since last year! She loves wearing her costume!_ James wrote, and Harriet could tell he was laughing when he wrote it. _Harriet's going to be a lovely little princess this year—she looks so sweet in her dress, I've just finished making it_, Lily wrote. In a tall typically princess-like cone-shaped hat and a long crimson dress embroidered with gold, Harriet beamed and dragged her little bag of sweets after her as she waddled around the parlour. _We can't take Harriet out, but Sirius sent some sweets from Honeydukes so we can pretend_…

That was the last entry. The last entry before her parents were killed. Harriet wondered if she had dressed up, whether her parents had pretended that they were a normal family and could go outside and enjoy things like normal people did.

Harriet closed the book, feeling her eyes burning; she raised a hand to her cheeks and realised she'd been crying without realising it. She hugged the book to her chest, taking a shuddering breath, and the dormitory door opened with a knock. Irina poked her head around and smiled.

"There you are hiding!" she smiled playfully.

"Oh! Hi Irina," Harriet said, smiling softly.

"I haff a letter for you," Irina said, striding into the room, bearing a plain little scroll. Harriet sat up straighter and reached for it. ""I vill see you later, then?"

"Yeah…" Harriet smiled, and as soon as Irina had gone, she tore Dumbledore's note open;

* * *

_Harriet, please meet me in my office immediately. Bring your cloak and wand, dress warmly, Albus._

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**A.N.**: Please review! Or I won't update the next chapter! Ha! Update-blackmail!

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	49. The Beginning of the Adventure

**A.N.**: Alright, _FlyingOctOpus_, I'll yield—another two chapters, because I've received a lot of reviews :D This may be the last update for maybe two/three days because I'm moving, but I'll hopefully get logged in as soon as I can (I don't think I could take the withdrawal symptoms!) So please read, enjoy and review!

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**The Beginning of the Adventure**

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Harriet ran, tugging one of Daisy's larger, fluffier jumpers on over several layers of t-shirts, almost tripping over the laces of her Converse sneakers as she hoisted her jeans up. She shot the password at the gargoyle and dashed up the moving spiral-staircase, knocked and entered the office without preamble, her Invisibility Cloak tucked in the pouch of her sweatshirt. "Professor!"

"Ah, Harriet, marvellous, you received my note!" Dumbledore smiled. He was dressed in a thick black travelling-cloak.

"Er—yeah, are you going out?" she asked. She'd been under the impression she was having a lesson.

"Perhaps—I have a proposition for you."

"Er…"

"You may have noticed I have been absent these last few days? Sirius also? I have been deliberating since my return this morning over whether I oughtn't to save the excursion I have planned until after you have competed in the first task," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "I would not wish to impair your chances in the Tournament." Harriet's stomach flipped; she and Hermes had an unspoken agreement; they did not talk about the first task.

"Excursion, sir?" Harriet said, raising her eyebrows. "We're going out?"

"I should hope so—you see, I have already gained permission from your guardian," Dumbledore smiled blithely. "And that is, if you also consent to accompany me."

"Where will we be going?" Harriet asked. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, and she stared at him, realisation clicking into place. "You haven't—have you _found one_?"

"I believe so."

"_How_?"

"Through the dim recollections of one Amy Benson."

"Amy…you mean… Was she the girl _he_ terrified on holiday?" Harriet whispered: Dumbledore nodded, smiling.

"You have remembered our lessons well," Dumbledore smiled, pleased.

"And you want me to come with you to get it?" Harriet breathed, excitement gripping at her. The dreadful helplessness she'd felt all week seemed to burn too hot, morphing into a desire to do something risky and potentially very dangerous, and be rebellious like Sirius would've been in her position, be _useful_.

"If you wish to."

"If _course_ I do! I have to come with you! I'm _supposed_ to do this!" Harriet said passionately.

"You must understand, Harriet, that I take you under one very strict condition," Dumbledore said solemnly.

"Okay…what is it?"

"That you obey any command—even such orders as 'run,' 'hide' or 'go back'—I give you at once—and without question."

"Okay." She'd learned to do as much at the Dursleys, probably before she'd even learned to understand proper sentences.

"If I tell you to hide, you will do so?"

"Yes."

"If I tell you to flee, you will obey?"

"Yes sir."

"And if I tell you to leave me, to save yourself and not look back, you will do so?"

"Er…" Harriet swallowed and licked her lips.

"Harriet?"

"I… Yes sir."

"Thank you. Now, I suggest you put your magnificent Cloak on now, it's quite cool outside" Dumbledore said, and Harriet grabbed her Cloak out of her pouch, whirling it around her shoulders. And they set off; Harriet followed Dumbledore's long, determined strides almost at a run: they were downstairs in the Entrance Hall, then past Hagrid's cabin and the Abraxans' enclosure in no time. It was very cold, and the air was very crisp; there would be frost.

"Sir, how are we getting—where we're going?" Harriet asked, as the gates at the end of the drive parted noiselessly.

"We will be Apparating," Dumbledore said. "Brooms would, I am sure, be far more appealing to you, however, I would like to press on, and ensure you are not missed."

"But won't people notice you're gone?" Harriet asked, glancing over her shoulder at the castle. "What if they can see you leaving?"

"Ah, then they will assume I am off to Hogsmeade for a drink; it has been known," Dumbledore said. "I have been obliged on occasion to offer Rosmerta my custom, or else visit the Hog's Head…or I appear to. It is a good way as any of disguising one's true intentions."

"Hm. Daisy used to tell Aunt Petunia she was at a friend's house, when she was really at the park trying cigarettes and alcohol," Harriet said, frowning at Dumbledore, then remembered he couldn't see her expression. "Once, she got caught out because her friend called and asked to speak to her on the phone. She was grounded. Has that ever happened to you?"

"Oh, no, I have _never_ been grounded!"

Harriet tutted impatiently; Dumbledore chuckled. "You know what I mean!"

"I do. And, no, I have never been caught out," Dumbledore smiled in her general direction. "I have a very efficient system in operation that allows me to slip away anywhere I wish undetected."

"Sweet."

"Rather," Dumbledore smirked.

By the time they reached the square in Hogsmeade—the very square James had met three-year-old Cedric and offered him sweets from Honeydukes—night had fallen in earnest, the storm having blown itself out, and the air glittered with what Hermes called 'fairy-dust'—particles of water frozen in the air, glittering in light filtering from upstairs windows over shops and the Three Broomsticks.

"Now…Again, I would ask you to take firm hold of my arm…and so, we depart."

* * *

As soon as her airway unblocked, she was standing in bitterly cold darkness, breathing in lungfuls of crisp, salty air. Great crashing waves burst against the rock beneath her feet and the mist permeated her clothing and refreshed her face. A light breeze made her hair flutter. She and Dumbledore stood on a sharp outcrop of rock, with black water churning and foaming violently at their feet; behind them was a towering cliff, a sheer, deadly drop, black and faceless. There was nothing but rock before them, violent ocean behind.

"What do you think?" Dumbledore asked, as if asking her opinion on a spot on which to picnic.

"They brought children _here_?" Harriet gaped; she could not even see the top of the cliff: Children around this place would be a deadly liability.

"No indeed! No Muggle could reach this spot lest they were the most skilful of mountaineers, as the water is too dangerous for boats," Dumbledore said. "There is a small village a mile inland I believe the orphans were taken to, for the sea air and the view of the waves. I think only Tom Riddle and those two poor, unfortunate little children he chose as his first youthful victims ever reached this spot. Riddle must have used magic to climb down—and brought Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson along for the sheer thrill of terrorising them."

"It's a wonder they didn't die of fright," Harriet whispered, horrified, staring up at the rock face.

"Indeed," Dumbledore sighed wearily. "Yet his final destination, therefore our own, lies further on." It started to rain—or the sea spray got heavier; either way, Harriet's visibility severely depleted as Dumbledore beckoned her to follow him to a series of narrow, jagged footholds in the rock leading to half-submerged boulders closer to the cliff.

"Er—Professor? Um…I _can_ use magic, can't I? I mean, the Ministry won't arrest me or anything, will they?"

"You have my permission, while we are in such dangerous and potentially vulnerable positions, to use any spell you can think of," Dumbledore smiled.

"Excellent—Er, can I take my cloak off?"

"Of course—there is very little need of it now." Harriet folded her cloak neatly into the pouch of her jumper and tugged off her glasses and tapped them with her wand; "_Impervius_!" She slipped her glasses back on and said, "Lumos!" as Dumbledore lit his own wand. With the sudden agility of a much younger man, Dumbledore slipped onto the first boulder.

"You do not object to getting a little wet?"

"Madam Pomfrey might if I catch hypothermia," Harriet mumbled, climbing down carefully. "No, I don't mind," she said, a little louder so Dumbledore could hear her over the crashing of the waves. Dumbledore nodded and slid from the boulder, plunging into the sea. Harriet thought she would be a bit of a killjoy now if she told Professor Dumbledore she didn't actually know how to swim—she'd always thought Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had rather hoped she might someday drown, and had never bothered to give her lessons.

_Necessity is the mother of invention_, she thought, taking a deep breath, clamping her wand between her teeth, and lowered herself into the water. A thousand searing knives stabbed her all over her body. "Ho-we _muvver_!" It was effing cold.

Her waterlogged clothing weighed her down instantly; she focused on imitating a frog and on the shimmering light of Dumbledore's wand, the light from her own glittering on the water. _At least you know how Jack and Rose felt_, she thought, repulsed by the salt-water that kept filtering through her teeth into her mouth. She followed Dumbledore's wand-light into a narrow fissure in the cliff: at high tide, it would flood; three feet apart, her numb fingertips brushed the walls, which glistened like tar, and curving to the left, Harriet saw the fissure went on and on, deeper into the cliff. She wondered fleetingly, finding it a little easier to swim now that she had the hang of a basic breaststroke, keeping her head above the water, whether Gollum wasn't lurking somewhere, coveting the One Ring. Just when she thought she might have swallowed the better part of the Atlantic, she glimpsed Dumbledore rising from the water, silver hair and robes glistening, using a set of steps hewn into the rocks. She reached them and clambered out, clothes and plaits streaming, shivering violently. Dumbledore already stood in the centre of a large cave, rotating on the spot, examining every inch of it.

"Yes, this is the place."

"How d'you know?" Harriet said, and she wasn't surprised that she was whispering.

"It has known magic," Dumbledore said simply. "All magic leaves traces—a residue, if you will." At that moment, all Harriet cared was whether Voldemort had invoked some form of Warming Charm. Dumbledore continued to examine their surroundings, apparently concentrating on something Harriet couldn't see…_ Must…buy…fur…cloak…_she shivered. "This is merely the antechamber…We must penetrate the cavern within… Now we must get past the obstacles Lord Voldemort has set in place, rather than those nature made…"

Touching as much of the rock as he could, Dumbledore made his way twice around the cave, murmuring words in a strange language that Harriet had never heard. Finally he stopped, his hand pressed flat against the wall.

"Here," Dumbledore said with conviction. "We go in through here." Harriet knew better than to second-guess Dumbledore, or expect to understand any explanation he might give her as to how he knew—She had never seen a wizard work things out simply by _looking_ and feeling: it had been a few years since Harriet had thought bangs and smoke were the marks of expertise; now she knew better. Dumbledore stepped back and pointed his wand at the rock; for a moment, an arched outline shone blazing-white in the still gloom of the cave.

"You've d-done it!" Harriet breathed, her teeth chattering loudly, echoing in the cavern, but no sooner had she spoken than the outline disappeared. Dumbledore glanced around.

"Oh, my dear, forgive me, I forgot!" he said, pointing his wand at her rather than the rock: the tension in every part of her body relaxed; something like molten fire slipped down her spine, and her clothes burned dully as if they had been hanging in front of a roaring fire.

"Thanks," Harriet sighed gratefully: Dumbledore had already turned back to the rock. He stared at it for a long time, frowning deeply, his hands behind her back, as if determined to memorise something rather difficult inscribed in the rock. "When he spoke, he seemed politely incredulous.

"Ha! Certainly not! Oh, dear me, Tom, how _crude_!" Harriet stepped up next to him and frowned at the blank black rock.

"Are you _seeing things_, Professor?" Dumbledore's eyes twinkled at her cheeky tone.

"Indeed. We are required to make payment in order to gain access to the chamber beyond."

"Payment? Of what?"

"Blood."

"_Blood_? That's _it_?" Dumbledore chuckled: Perhaps he shared Harriet's view that something much more remarkably complex and awe-inspiringly fearsome had been anticipated.

"I said it was crude; I assume Voldemort's aim was to make the trespasser weak," he sighed. "He fails to comprehend there are far worse things than physical injury."

"It's nice if you can avoid it, though," Harriet said.

"Indeed. However, there are some instances when it is unavoidable. This is one of them." Dumbledore reached into his robes and pulled out a short silver knife, the like Harriet used to cut up potions ingredients, and raised it over his left forearm.

"Wait, Professor, I'll do it, I'm—" Younger, fitter, more prone to pain and injury? Yes, probably all of those.

"I thank you, Harriet, but your blood is far more precious than my own, and Sirius would not thank me if I returned his goddaughter bloodied," Dumbledore said, smiling softly, and Harriet winced as Dumbledore struck the blade: scarlet droplets peppered the glistening wall: The blazing archway appeared again as Dumbledore healed his arm wordlessly and the blood-spattered rock disappeared entirely, though the blackness that replaced it was far more complete.

* * *

"Mm…After me, I think," Dumbledore said quietly. "Keep your wand out." Harriet followed on Dumbledore's heels through the archway. Once inside it, they were met by a very eerie sight, unnatural. A great onyx lake spanned as far as they could see—she couldn't see the opposite bank, but a misty green light emanated from something on the far side, reflecting on the perfectly still black water below. It was so smooth it might've been black marble. That greenish glow and the lights of the two wands were the all that penetrated the inky blackness; the darkness seemed more dense than usual: It made Harriet's spine tingle unpleasantly.

"Let us walk," Dumbledore said pleasantly, as if they were in a lovely flower-studded meadow. "Oh—and please do not disturb the water. Keep close to me." Harriet followed close behind as Dumbledore set out around the edge of the lake. The view did not vary; the greenish glow grew no brighter.

"Do you think the Horcrux is here? Will we have to go into the water?"

"Oh, only if we are superbly unfortunate," Dumbledore said mildly.

"The Horcrux isn't at the bottom?"

"No, I rather think it is in the _middle_," Dumbledore said. "The question is how to get to it."

"Couldn't we use a Summoning Charm?" Harriet wondered, though she highly doubted Voldemort's other defences of a portion of his prized soul would be as rudimentary as a blood sacrifice. She was keen to get out of this place as quickly as possible.

"Certainly we could use a Summoning Charm! Why don't you give it a try?"

"Er…well…I haven't been able to Summon anything in lessons," Harriet admitted. "Professor Flitwick says I've developed a block against Summoning Charms."

"Oh indeed? Well—give it another go anyway. You may be surprised. Focus all your thought on what you desire to have."

Cedric's face swam into view, clear as anything in her mind because of the darkness: It was easier to dream in the dark. She banished his face away and focused on a single word: Horcrux. "_Accio Horcrux_!"

With an explosion like cannon-fire, something large and pale erupted from the water some twenty feet away: it dove back into the water so quickly Harriet didn't see properly what it was. The crashing splash sent ripples across the surface of the water, which smoothed too unnaturally quickly. Harriet leapt back in fright and hit the wall.

"What was _that_?" she squeaked, her heart hammering terribly.

"Something I believe awaits its chance to waylay us should we attempt to seize the Horcrux." Harriet glanced back at the water; it was smooth, glassy once more like highly polished black marble. There was nothing in this cave entirely natural save herself and Professor Dumbledore. This place was a place where nightmares spawned, and she hoped they didn't have to go too far into the cliff.

"Sir, did you think that would happen?"

"I anticipated_ something_ would happen. That was a very good idea, Harriet—by far the simplest and least-painful way of discovering what we must face on the return journey."

"But we don't know what it was," Harriet said, though deep down in her stomach she had a horrible suspicion: She had, after all, read Regulus's books.

"What the things _are_ you mean?" Dumbledore mused: With that ominous thought lingering on the unnaturally still air, he walked on.

"How do we cross the lake without touching the water?" Harriet asked, wishing they _had_ brought brooms; she was _good_ with brooms; no one was better than her when brooms were involved…

"Aha!" Dumbledore stopped abruptly; Harriet staggered and stumbled, off-balance, and Dumbledore grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back against the wall. "Forgive me, I should have given warning. Stand back, please, I believe we have reached the place."

Harriet waited, and watched, her eyebrows raised and wondering whether Rhona hadn't always been right about Dumbledore being cracked, as Dumbledore ran his hand through thin air as if anticipating coming into contact with something. Seconds later, his fist _did_: his thin fingers closed on something, and he exclaimed in delight. Harriet watched nervously as the tips of Dumbledore's buckled boots found the utmost edge of the rock: Dumbledore tapped his clenched fist with his wand—a thick, coppery green chain appeared, extending from Dumbledore's fist to the depths of the black lake with barely a disturbance of the water; he taped the chain and it jingled and tinkled, echoing in the cave, as it slid through his fist, coiling on the floor at Dumbledore's feet: the ghostly prow, eerier than the Durmstrang ship, broke the surface; a tiny boat followed instantly, with barely a ripple in the water.

"_How_ did you do _that_?" Harriet breathed, awed.

"Magic leaves traces, you remember I told you," Dumbledore smiled. "I taught Tom Riddle—his style was very distinctive."

"Yeah—homicidal," Harriet said darkly, eyeing the lake and hoping her suspicions about what lurked within weren't correct.

"Quite."

"Is the boat safe? We won't grow anything unnatural if we sit in it, will we?" Harriet asked.

"Oh, no, I do not believe the boat is cursed. Voldemort needed a means to cross the lake as much as we do without provoking the wrath of the Horcrux's guardians, in case he wished ever to visit or retrieve it."

"Why would he do that, unless he was worried about its safety, and he didn't care about the ring or the diary," Harriet said, frowning. "Unless he wanted to put the pieces back together—and I _highly_ doubt he'd do that, because the pain of so much remorse would likely kill him."

"My word, but you _have_ been doing the thing properly, haven't you? And I haven't even given you homework," Dumbledore chuckled happily.

"So the _things _will only attack if we get the Horcrux?" She didn't want to say the word, for then they might seem far too fearsomely _real_.

"Indeed—as soon as they believe we are not Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore said. Harriet put her hand to her nose; No, still there, not snakelike slits: She didn't like her chances against the _things_, then.

"Do they think only Voldemort could raise the boat?" Harriet wondered.

"Yes—and no. Voldemort would have been supremely confident that only a tremendously skilled wizard could have come this far." Harriet glanced down; the boat was tiny.

"Er…do you want me to stay here? It looks very small."

"Oh, size and weight mean nothing in wizardry," Dumbledore waved his hand. "For this purpose, at least. Voldemort would have been concerned solely with the amount of magical power that crossed the lake—You, Harriet, fourteen years old and an unqualified witch, I do not think will register to any enchantment placed on the boat…Voldemort's mistake… Age is foolish and forgetful with it underestimates youth. In you go, Harriet—careful of the water." Hoisting Daisy's smallest, most comfortable pair of second-hand jeans up past her waist so the hems didn't trail, Harriet climbed into the prow of the boat: Dumbledore climbed in carefully, and with Harriet crouched painfully at his feet, the boat set off, barely leaving any trace of disturbance in the water.

It got eerier. They could no longer see the walls of the cave, and darkness pressed in from all sides. Glancing down, Harriet immediately wished she hadn't; there was a marble-white human hand floating inches from the surface. She took a deep breath and suppressed the queasy feeling in her stomach, and focused her eyes on the misty green light, refusing to look down though she knew full well what was below the water; the hand had confirmed it.

She ran over everything she'd reading Regulus's book, even as she shivered fearfully. Inferi feared warmth and light—the very opposites of what they were now, and what they had once been.

"Nearly there," Dumbledore said cheerfully, and Harriet was glad; her knees were screaming in protest against her cramped position. Within moments, the boat had banked against a smooth island. Careful not to touch the water, Harriet climbed out of the boat and offered her hand to Dumbledore.

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**A.N.**: PLEASE REVIEW!!!

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	50. The Horcrux That Wasn't

**A.N.**: Please review! I'll be sitting alone in my room at university, eating baked-beans on toast with no money so _entertain me with reviews_, please!

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**The Horcrux That Wasn't**

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The green light was brighter now; Harriet squinted, at first thinking of a lamp; then she recognised it was a stone basin rather like Dumbledore's Pensieve, set atop a pedestal, waist-high to her. Side by side they approached the basin and glanced down into it: An emerald liquid emitted the eerie, phosphorescent glow.

"What is it?"

"I am not sure. Something far more fearsome than darkness and dead bodies." Harriet sighed.

"We should've brought Snape."

"_Professor_ Snape, Harriet."

"Yeah, him. Sir—don't touch—!" Too late, Dumbledore was reaching for the potion.

"Ah…As you see, Harriet, I cannot touch. I can get no nearer than this. You try." Harriet licked her lips and slowly lowered her hand into the basin; No matter how hard she pushed, she couldn't move past the invisible barrier that prevented her moving within an inch of the potion. Dumbledore raised his wand over the basin and made complicated movements. Harriet watched him work, marvelling at his brilliance, and how much she still had to learn about magic.

"Hm…This potion cannot be penetrated by hand, Vanished, parted, scooped up or siphoned away, nor can it be Transfigured, Charmed, or otherwise made to change its nature… One can only conclude, therefore, that this potion is supposed to be drunk."

"What?" Harriet blurted.

"Only by drinking this can I empty the basin and reach the Horcrux that lies within its depths."

"But—but, it could be anything! It could kill you!"

"Oh, no, it won't work that way!"

"Er—you and I are thinking of the same Lord Voldemort, aren't we?"

"Oh! Forgive me—this potion is not intended to kill, merely to render any attempt of escape impossible," Dumbledore explained. "Voldemort would have been very curious to know who and how anyone had managed to find out the deepest and darkest of his secrets. He believes that he alone knows of his Horcruxes." As he spoke, Dumbledore conjured a heavy crystal goblet from thin air.

"As you have probably already imagined, this potion has the potential to paralyze me, to cause me to forget why I am here, create so much pain that I am distracted or render me incapable in a myriad of ways. I must therefore ask you to remember your promise to me earlier—it is your duty to ensure I drink every last drop of this potion, and take the Horcrux," Dumbledore said gently.

"Why can't I drink it?"

"Because, my dear one, I am already far gone in age and decrepitude. I am also far cleverer, and least likely to be missed," Dumbledore said; "I have your word that you will force me to keep drinking?"

"You're sure you don't want me to drink it?"

"You are very kind Harriet, but I must drink," Dumbledore said. "Do I have your promise?" Harriet took a deep breath, glanced at the potion and sighed.

"Alright—you have my word," she agreed grudgingly, and no sooner had she uttered the first syllable than Dumbledore had filled the goblet and drained its contents. Harriet watched, frozen in mortification, her nerves stretched beyond endurance, her hands gripping the basin so tightly her fingertips were numb. Dumbledore lowered the empty goblet. "Professor?"

Dumbledore shook his head, eyes shut: Harriet wondered whether he was in pain. He plunged the glass blindly into the potion and drank; he drained his second goblet, then a third; halfway through the fourth, he staggered against the basin.

"Professor Dumbledore?" Harriet whispered, wide-eyed. Dumbledore's eyes were closed, his face twitching as if reliving a nightmare; the Dementors' effect put into liquid form. She grabbed the goblet Dumbledore was about to drop. "Professor?"

"I don't want… Don't make me…" Harriet had never heard his voice like that before, for she had never known Dumbledore to be afraid. She didn't even think he feared anything at all…which was silly. "…don't like…want to stop…"

"You…I'm not allowed to let you, remember? You've got to keep drinking. Here…" Repulsed with herself, wishing the situation was reversed as she had offered, Harriet forced the goblet back towards Dumbledore's mouth and tipped the potion down his throat.

"No…" Dumbledore groaned. Harriet remembered Cedric whispering in her ear, coaching her, only this morning. Was it only this morning? Though her heart was fluttering in her mouth and she felt physically ill with what she was making Dumbledore do and also with the knowledge of what lurked not five metres away, she kept up a constant stream of bright, cheerful whispers, that nevertheless broke every time Dumbledore begged her to make it stop. Tears splashed down her face as she forced Dumbledore, who was screaming and whimpering like a petrified child, to drink the potion.

"Don't hurt them, don't hurt them, please, please, it's my fault, hurt me instead… Please, please, please, no… Not that, not that, I'll do anything, anything…"

"This'll do it," Harriet whispered tearfully, tipping another gobletful of potion into Dumbledore's mouth. He yelled as if his insides were aflame.

"No more, please, no more…" The crystal finally scraped the bottom of the basin, _And about time, too_. "I want to die! I want to die! Make it stop, make it stop, I want to die!"

"Drink this!" Harriet squeaked, her eyes flooding with tears; only the _Impervius_ charm she'd placed on her glasses prevented them going bleary with tears.

"KILL ME!"

"This—this one will!" Harriet gasped, tears splashing down her cheeks. "This is the last one, I promise." Dumbledore drained the very last gobletful, drained every last drop, and with a terrifying rattling gasp, rolled over onto his face.

"No! Shit! _Effing_—_effing_—_effing_!" Harriet swore, lugging Dumbledore's weight and rolling him onto his back. "_Oi_! No, come on, you're not dead! I was only saying that to make you _drink_! Wake up!" She slapped him round the face; he moaned and his eyelashes fluttered.

"Oh! Professor, you're alright!" Harriet gasped, relief flooding over her.

"Water," he croaked.

"What? Water?" Harriet jumped to her feet, to the basin, scooped up the goblet and grabbed the locket lying on the bottom without looking at it, stuffing it into her jeans pocket.

She reached the water's edge and stopped. The light of her wand glittered against the water and illuminated the pale white things beneath: Dumbledore's haggard breathing was fading. Even if she knew a charm for water—she was sure it was _Aqua_-something—she knew it would be no use: Voldemort had engineered it so that the thief had no choice but to disturb the water and incur the wrath of the dark creatures whose soul purpose was to stop those who had disturbed them.

_Fire, fire, they hate fire_, she thought, gripping her wand and taking a deep breath. She had seen illustrations of what Inferi could do. She plunged her hand and the goblet into the water, filled it to the brim and lunged at Dumbledore, tipping the water into his mouth; he gasped and sucked it down. The spine-tingling feeling of being watched and the icy feel of something clamped around her wrist alerted her that the Inferi had woken. She gulped.

_Fire_.

Everything went very cold for a second as she turned and faced the Inferius. A slimy marble-white face with sunken, sightless frosted eyes, as if spun with spiders' webs, stared at her blindly. She lifted her wand and shot bluebell-coloured flames (the only fire she knew how to conjure) at the Inferius, who had once been a man: It stumbled backwards and fell into the water, which was suddenly not smooth at all, but churning; glistening white heads and brittle, bony hands erupted from the water from every direction. She remembered what Hermes had said—"_You-Know-Who killed enough people to make an army of them_."

Well, here was an army—and the sheer, horrific magnitude of Inferi in the lake made Harriet realised who she was dealing with: This was more along the lines of Hitler's Holocaust than two parents murdered in the middle of the night. There weren't just men and women in waterlogged rags—there were children of all ages, there were _babies_, crawling onto the smooth stone island, but they _weren't_ babies, Harriet had never ever even seen a child that looked like that, not even in Daisy's science-horror films. She had never imagined anything as horrific as this.

She shot bluebell flames at them, and snatched Dumbledore's wand, hoping that with two wands she could create more flames with which to protect them both, using Dumbledore's wand to shoot large balls of flame at the Inferi as she ran around the island creating a ragged line of flickering blue-white flames: Heat and light gushed from them, waylaying the Inferi. Now she could see them, really _see_ them, she had to fight the urge not to vomit.

The Inferi did not dare pass the flames, no matter how small they were; but now she and Dumbledore were blocked from the boat, and the Inferi kept mounting on top of each other. She needed _someone_ to get them out of here, someone who could Apparate them straight to the hospital wing, or Snape's office…for Dumbledore's eyes were still closed and he needed help… Someone like—she raised her voice, but it was tremulous when she called "_Dobby_!"

_CRACK_!

Some of the flames flickered but did not go out as Dobby, in his mismatched socks and tea-cosy, appeared before her, beaming.

"Dobby has come, madam! What service can Dobby be so honoured to perform for Harriet Potter, miss?" he squeaked excitedly, then his bulging tennis-ball eyes reflected the flames and the Inferi, and his expression filled with terror.

"Dobby, please get us back to Hogwarts!"

There was a _CRACK_ and the cave disappeared; warmth flooded over her as she opened her eyes: They were in Dumbledore's darkened study. Harriet let out a huge gasp and flung herself at Dobby, hugging him fiercely.

"Thank you, Dobby!" she gushed passionately, shivering. She let go quickly and helped Dumbledore off the floor and Dobby guided them both to the throne-like chair behind Dumbledore's handsome mahogany desk.

"Dobby, the fire, please," Harriet gasped, as she ran to the water carafe and filled a gobletful of water for Dumbledore: Dobby snapped his fingers and the embers in Dumbledore's grate leapt into life, roaring crimson and gold, and uncommonly hot—or was Harriet still feeling the effects of the lake, her arms covered in goosebumps of fear and cold?

"Professor," Harriet said gently. "Professor, here's some more water for you." Dumbledore parted his lips like a fish and Harriet carefully poured the water into his mouth.

"More, please," he said in little more than a whisper. Harriet was alarmed by how pale he was, and how exhausted he sounded. Harried obliged and filled the goblet again.

"Is that better?" she asked, after the second and third gobletful.

"I am weak, though better," Dumbledore sighed, still with his eyes closed. "Where are we?"

"Your office, sir," Harriet said quietly. Dumbledore's face pulled into a frown as his eyes opened; his spectacles flashed as he glanced around the room, and his eyebrows flew up.

"Indeed! How ever did we manage that?" he asked, looking around the room as if he'd never seen it before.

"Dobby, sir," Harriet said, beaming fondly at the elf, who was busy stoking the fire and attending to the lamps all around the room. Dumbledore glanced down at Dobby and raised his eyebrows again.

"Indeed!" he managed a smile. "Magnificent, magnificent, simply _superb_!"

"What is, sir?" Harriet asked, cocking her head to one side.

"Your ability to keep your wit in a crisis—and your skill of relying on intuition," Dumbledore smiled, settling back into his chair in a far more relaxed posture.

"My… What?"

"How did you know Dobby would be able to penetrate the cave?" Dumbledore asked, training one forget-me-not blue eye on Harriet. Harriet glanced at Dobby, who was frowning at the water carafe as it refilled itself.

"I… Well, Dobby Apparated to me in the hospital wing two years ago, when he was trying to save my life," Harriet mumbled. She hadn't known if Dobby _would_ be able to get to them—she'd just wanted him to! "But elf-magic doesn't work the way wizards' magic does, does it?"

"The house-elf's highest law is his master's bidding," Dobby squeaked, beaming at Harriet. "But Dobby is a free elf and can serve who he wishes. Harriet Potter called on him for escape for herself and for Professorhead, Master Dumbledore sir; Dobby made it so."

"Thank you, Dobby, I am forever indebted to you—I think a pay-rise is in order, also," Dumbledore said solemnly, bowing his head to the elf. Dobby's ears straightened out; he looked appalled.

"Oh _no_ sir, _no_! Dobby could not accept more galleons, sir, he is already enjoying too much riches!" Dobby gasped. Dumbledore opened his mouth, looking like he was going to argue.

"Tell you what, Dobby," Harriet beamed down at him, "when I go into Hogsmeade next, I'll buy you a pair of socks for _every day of the week_!" Dobby's ears flapped so quickly Harriet thought he might take off.

"Madam is _very kind_," Dobby said, his eyes brimming with tears.

"It's the least I can do," Harriet smiled. "That's the second time you've saved my life, you know." Dobby made an excited sort of squeak and bowed, smiling, his ears flapping happily. Harriet glanced at Dumbledore, who still looked pale. "Dobby, please can you fetch us some things from the kitchens—chocolate?" Dobby beamed, bowed, and with a _CRACK_ he was gone.

"Ah, chocolate, the universal magical cure," Dumbledore smiled. "It is good to know Professor Lupin had a lasting effect on your education."

"And on my life," Harriet added: After all, if Remus hadn't shown up in the Shrieking Shack in June, she'd have ended up cursing Sirius or something. "He's the best Defence teacher we've ever had." Dumbledore frowned and looked up at her; a little colour was returning to his face.

"Better than Professor Moody?" Harriet winced.

"He's…_different_," she said quietly. "Everyone liked Remus being our teacher…I think most people are frightened of Professor Moody."

"Most people?" Dumbledore smiled at her rather tiredly.

"Well, I mean—his eye's a bit freaky, but…everyone says he was an excellent Auror: Sirius said he was the best the Ministry ever had," Harriet shrugged. Talking seemed to give Dumbledore something to focus on; the colour was slowly but gradually returning to his face. She continued; "In our last lesson he said I'd make a fair Auror. I'm not sure though."

"Why ever not?"

"I'd…I'd like to see how scarred the other Aurors are first," Harriet admitted, and Dumbledore gave a small chuckle.

"Harriet…in this drawer, you'll find a small gold coin," Dumbledore said quietly, motioning to his right. "Please could you find it for me?" In a little dish in the drawer, Harriet found a flat little gold coin, not a galleon but something similar to the little gold thing dangling from 'Toby's' collar. It _was_ the coin from his collar.

"Please tap it with your wand," Dumbledore said mildly; Harriet did so, setting Dumbledore's wand down on the desk, tapping the tip of her wand against the gold so it burned—not painfully, but enough so that the heat wouldn't go unnoticed. There was a _CRACK_ that had nothing to do with the medallion, because Dobby had just reappeared, and was spreading a full dinner service on the table: the smell of a roast-beef dinner filled the room and the smell seemed to revive Dumbledore. A rich chocolate pudding was steaming beside a jug of rich, creamy sweet white sauce; there were two large gold platefuls of tender roast beef and all the trimmings; roast potatoes and Yorkshire puddings, fresh vegetables, caramelised parsnips that Harriet had grown to love since coming to Hogwarts, fresh Brussels sprouts.

"Thank you, Dobby," Dumbledore said wearily, though his voice was a lot stronger than before.

"Dobby must return to the kitchens now, sir and madam," Dobby squeaked, bowing low. "Dobby will return later to clear, sir."

"Thank you, Dobby," Dumbledore bowed his head. Dobby disappeared with a soft _CRACK_ and Harriet settled down in her usual seat. Dumbledore's eyes were on his wand.

"Harriet, did you use my wand?"

"Er…_Yes_, sir," Harriet said, cringing guiltily. "Um…I used it to shoot bluebell flames at the Inferi while I was drawing the line of fire around us…was that alright?" Dumbledore didn't respond; he was still looking at his wand. After a few moments, he glanced back and Harriet and smiled.

"Yes. I believe so," he said quietly. "Shall we tuck in?"

"Are you feeling better?" Harriet asked concernedly.

"Marginally," Dumbledore nodded. "I am out of immediate danger." _Isn't that the truth!_ Harriet thought, perching at the edge of her seat. "I believe I shall be better for a full meal and a good, healthy dose of that wonderful chocolate pudding." Harriet eyed it too: chocolate steamed sponge pudding and white sauce was one of her favourite desserts, especially in the autumn when it was as bitterly cold as it was getting now.

"So…" Harriet frowned. "The potion—it was only supposed to waylay you, just to stop you taking the Horcrux? So the Inferi would attack you when you wanted the water, so you'd never even reach the Horcrux in the first place?"

"Yes."

"But you said Voldemort would have wanted to question the thief on how they found out about the Horcrux," Harriet frowned. "How would he…?"

"There are ways of finding out," Dumbledore said mildly, and Harriet didn't pursue the subject further across the dinner-table.

"The Horcrux—you took it from the—Ah!" The study door opened and Harriet glanced over her shoulder; nothing; she looked around and jumped, shouted indignantly, and watched Sirius nicking one of her Yorkshire puddings. Sirius giggled softly, chewing on the Yorkshire pudding, and plopped down languorously into the other chair before Dumbledore's desk.

"So, successful venture?" Sirius smiled, glancing between them, as if they had been merely going into town after a popular record that had just been produced.

"We were just getting to that," Dumbledore said, and Harriet was very relieved by the gusto with which Dumbledore was eating. As he tucked into his roast, Harriet nibbled, watching anxiously. "Harriet, I was about to ask you whether you had obtained the Horcrux."

Harriet nodded and dug into her left jeans pocket; she felt something very cool against her skin and pulled out the locket. It was a little thing, small and lovely and delicate, a golden oval, but unmarked. She turned it over, frowning; there was no _S_ of Slytherin on it, and Merope's locket had definitely been much larger…somehow _clumsier_ than this one solely because of its very great age.

"This…this isn't it," she said quietly, glancing up at Dumbledore. She set down her knife and dug her thumbnail into the groove of the locket and opened it easily. Folded into a tiny square, jammed into the place where a portrait should have been, was a bit of aged parchment—parchment at least thirteen years old. She unfolded the paper.

* * *

_To the Dark Lord_

_I know I will be dead long before you read this_

_but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret._

_I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can._

_I face death in the hope that when you meet your match,_

_you will be mortal once more._

_R.A.B._

* * *

She read the note aloud; Sirius snatched it from her hands before she'd finished, "'…mortal once more'… It's the one he stole—Regulus stole the _locket_," Harriet said softly, staring at the note, and at Sirius's expression. She glanced at Dumbledore, who had sat up straighter, knife and fork poised and frowning at the note. Sirius was staring open-mouthed and glassy-eyed at the note.

"Oh you foolish boy," he whispered in a rush, his hands falling into his lap with the note, his shoulders sloping. He looked utterly disconsolate.

"May I have the note, please?" Dumbledore said quietly; Harriet reached over and tenderly removed the note from Sirius's limp hands; he brought one hand to cover his eyes. Harriet rested a hand on his and peered at Sirius carefully as she handed the note to Dumbledore. Sirius took a deep breath and sat up, moving his hand from his eyes to his mouth and looking aggrieved. Dumbledore, his half-moon spectacles flashing as he looked down his nose through them, frowned, read the note, and passed it back to Harriet. He picked up his knife and fork again, ate a roast potato, and said, "And does this tie in with your discoveries, Sirius?"

"What discoveries?" Sirius said spitefully, glowering at the note, and the locket, both resting in Harriet's lap as she ate her dinner at Dumbledore's beckoning. "He's mute—apparently Regulus forbid him speaking to anyone in the family about—_whatever_ _happened_."

"A wise move," Dumbledore said, and Harriet suddenly thought she wasn't privy to the conversation, as she didn't understand it. "Horace said he was one of his brightest pupils. Do you think he can be coerced?" Sirius took the locket from Harriet's lap and looped the chain delicately around his fingertips, so the locket glittered against his fingers.

"This belonged to my Great-Grandmother Hesper," Sirius said quietly, glancing at Harriet, then at Dumbledore, "He'll talk—he wasn't forbidden speaking freely to those outside the family."

"Harriet, you will not object to spending a few of your free hours in Hogsmeade next weekend in London instead?" Dumbledore asked carefully, glancing at Harriet. She glanced at Sirius.

"Er…No?" she said quietly, glancing between the two men.

"Good. Then next Saturday, Sirius, you have my permission to take Harriet out of Hogsmeade to London," Dumbledore said. "Harriet, please take your Invisibility Cloak with you when you go." Harriet nodded, and finished eating: Sirius helped polish off the steamed sponge pudding and Dumbledore declared he was feeling quite remarkably normal again, and banished Harriet to Gryffindor tower before anyone should realise she was missing.

"Do I _have to_?" Harriet pouted. She hated the common room these days—having everyone worship and admire her for having her name come out of the Goblet was almost as unbearable as having people emotionally mutilate her.

"Yes, I am afraid so."

Harriet gnashed her teeth together at the mention, slung on her cloak, bid Dumbledore a grumpy goodnight, and Padfoot accompanied her down the spiral staircase and back towards Gryffindor tower: the Fat Lady was still awake, Padfoot nudged the curtains aside around her four-poster and Harriet slipped into the bed, which was still warm as though a warming-pan had been tucked beneath the sheets, and sighed heavily.

It had been a _long_ day.

* * *

**A.N.**: Please review!

* * *


	51. Basilisk Fangs

**A.N.**: To _FlyingOctOpus_, _123me321you_, and _SlytherclawXHuffledor_, thank you, thank you, thank you! Okay, another one to tide you over until the weekend! (By the way, Frank, thanks for telling me your birthday, I don't feel morbidly depressed and _old_ anymore) ;P

* * *

**Basilisk Fangs**

* * *

"Now, remember, if anyone asks—not that they _will_!—I'm in the shops," Harriet said, as she and Hermes went down to breakfast very early on Saturday morning.

"Why won't you let _me_ come with you?" Hermes hissed, as they entered the Great Hall: Harriet glanced over at the Hufflepuff table warily; She'd been wary of never being anywhere where there was a greater ratio of Hufflepuffs to the rest of the house representatives. All clear, though--Cedric and his friends had yet to drag themselves out of bed, probably after a night drinking with the alcohol Harriet knew they'd bought at the off-license beside the Apothecary in Hogsmeade.

"Because _you_ don't have permission to go to London," Harriet said, smiling smugly at Hermes as he glowered at her, and at the injustice of her being within walking-distance of so many bookshops.

"Last year you weren't even allowed out of the castle without people getting in a flap! This year you're Apparating here, there and everywhere!"

"It's not like I _enjoy_ it! It's not as though Sirius is taking me out for shopping and cream tea," Harriet said wistfully, glancing at Padfoot, who was sitting elegantly by her. She'd _love_ for Sirius to take her out for clotted-cream teas and shopping: She imagined her father might've done those things with her, treating her, spoiling her—in-between professional Quidditch practices.

"You will be careful, won't you?" Hermes said worriedly.

"You're worried about me going to London with Sirius, yet, let me face a lakeful of Inferi, you're fine!" Harriet said in mock indignation.

"I didn't _know_ you were going to fight Inferi. If I had, I would've taught you a far more effective fire charm. It was very lucky Cedric taught you the charm for those bluebell flames," Hermes said, white-faced: He hadn't slept all night after Harriet had finally left the hospital wing and managed to tell him everything. "And I _cannot _believe Dumbledore didn't let anyone know you were both leaving Hogwarts."

"Sirius knew!"

"And he'd have raised a very effective alarm if you didn't come home, I'm sure!"

"He'd have told you, dungbrains—and anyway, how are _you_ intending to tell people I've gone on a day-trip to London with the convicted killer everyone thinks is still out to murder me?" Hermes opened his mouth and narrowed his eyes.

"I _do_ dislike your periodic bouts of intelligence," he remarked tartly. "Think you're very clever, don't you?"

"Well, being in a lake surrounded by brainless dead bodies _does_ give one a certain sense of mental superiority," Harriet smirked.

"That was a long sentence—did it hurt?" Hermes teased playfully. Harriet smiled and helped herself to fromage blanc with sugar and a freshly-baked butter croissant. (She _did_ love the French influence on the cooking in recent weeks!)

"So what are you going to do while I'm gone? Hang out with that foul, festering, grubby-minded little trollop?" Harriet asked lightly, pouring tea for them. Hermes rolled his eyes. Harriet hadn't spoken a word to Rhona since Halloween—and Rhona definitely hadn't stopped by the hospital wing last week to check she was alive, even though news of the duel and how Harriet had been tortured spread through the school like wildfire. It was difficult to speak and see clearly when one had one's tongue jammed down someone's throat…or so Harriet would imagine. Rhona had been fiercely engaged with snogging Dean Thomas every time Harriet had been down in the common-room doing homework when the silence of Hermes' beloved library became too oppressive.

"Harriet, I really think you should try and make up with Rhona—I _know_ you miss her," Hermes said pleadingly. He'd given up trying to force conversation between the two girls in lessons.

"Ha!" Harriet scoffed loudly. "Why should _I_ make the effort? She's the one who buggared off! She's proved how loyal she is to our _friendship_! Do you think Sirius or my dad would have gone off in a strop if either of them got picked for the Tournament, hm? _No_!" Though she spoke passionately, Harriet knew she was lying, at least about the part about Rhona: She _did_ miss her. Harriet loved Hermes, but there was a lot more time spent in the library and a lot less time laughing when Hermes was one's best-friend, and the dormitory felt like an ice-cube in the evenings before bed: She spent as little time there, and in the common room, as possible. She spent a lot of time with Norah, but it wasn't the same, and even Norah had found someone new in Dmitry, whom Harriet had hypothesised (to Norah's great embarrassment) one evening that Dmitry had got _fond_ of her.

"Alright, fine, I'm not going to bother trying to help you both patch this up! You're both far too stubborn," Hermes snapped. "And anyway, I won't be going in with Rhona because she's going to Hogsmeade with _Dean_." His nostrils flared at Dean's name and he applied himself viciously to his sausages and bacon, hacking them into pieces.

"So what _are_ you going to do?" Harriet asked, sipping her tea. Hermes brought out his S.P.E.W. notebook and the box of badges.

"I thought, if you're going to be gone for a few hours, I'd make the rounds in Hogsmeade, see if any of the villagers are interested in supporting us," Hermes said excitedly. Harriet arched an eyebrow. "And _then_ I'll go to _Flourish_ _and_ _Blotts_."

"You'll wait for me to go to Gladrags, won't you? I've got to buy Dobby seven pairs of socks!" Harriet smiled.

"You know, I've thought whether we could work Dobby helping you into the campaign—you know, 'Kindness inspires far greater loyalty than fear,' but I don't know how we'd swing it without having to back it up with the whole story," Hermes sighed. "Oh well…I'll keep trying regardless. If I could get a little more exposure for S.P.E.W., it would be a big help."

"Right…" Harriet had just seen Rhona sauntering into the Great Hall with Dean Thomas—Seamus trailing dejectedly behind.

"You know, Harriet, I've been thinking—not about _Rhona_, about the Horcrux," Hermes sighed irritably. "If you're going to find it, you'll need a way to destroy it."

"Er…Yeah?"

"And Basilisk venom is so…well, _venomous_ that it won't dry out for decades, and we've got a Basilisk decomposing at this very moment down in the—"

"Chamber of Secrets," Harriet said, snapping her fingers. "Good one! Come on!"

"Where?"

"Have you multiple personalities? The Chamber of Secrets, come on—You've never been there before, have you?" Harriet said, jumping out of her seat and tugging on the sleeve of Hermes' jumper.

"No, is it lovely down there?"

"Yes—rather like _hell_," Harriet smirked, striding down the Hall with Padfoot at her heels.

"I only meant," Hermes panted, as they reached Moaning Myrtle's corridor, "it's the Chamber of Secrets: All of the stories and studies I read about it, back in second year—they made it seem rather magnificent."

"Yeah, well, it's all perspective, isn't it," Harriet said. "The Death Eaters' Manifesto would claim Voldemort's the second coming!" Hermes rolled his eyes amusedly and followed Harriet into Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. It had been a long time since they'd been in there.

"So, where _is_ the entrance to the Chamber, anyway?" Hermes asked, glancing around. Harriet strode to the very end sink: Myrtle reflected in the mirror; she was sitting on the cistern.

"Hullo Harriet."

"Hi Myrtle," Harriet smiled.

"You'd better not be making bother," Myrtle smirked. She glimpsed Hermes and blushed silver. "Hello Hermes." Hermes flushed and smiled awkwardly, giving Harriet a pointed look. Harriet smirked and crouched down, searching for the tiny etched snake on the tap. She licked her lips, remembering how the Gaunts could converse seamlessly in Parseltongue and English, and hissed softly, "_Open_."

Hermes shot a locking charm at the bathroom door and stared as the ordinary-looking sink disappeared to reveal the pipe entrance to the Chamber. "It's a little scary when you speak Parseltongue, you know," Hermes said quietly. Harriet sighed.

"You will know how to get us back up here, won't you?" she asked. Hermes rolled his eyes as she lowered her legs into the pipe. "I had to ask! Padfoot, you stay here—keep Myrtle company." Sirius scoffed and turned his nose away, annoyed. "We'll be back in a few minutes, and then you can have _your_ adventure." Padfoot watched her as she let go and dropped. The strangest sense of déjà vu hit her as she slid down the large tunnel—she didn't slide as fast as she remembered the last time, and she was sure the pipe tunnel had been larger. She shot out of the end of the tunnel and skidded to a halt on the remains of rodents. "_Lumos_! Urgh! _Scourgify_!" She wrinkled her nose and the slime and muck cleaned off her clothes. Hermes shot out of the end of the tunnel with a yelp and skidded to a halt at Harriet's feet.

"I think it must've been madness or brains that got you out of here alive," Hermes whispered, glancing around as he lit his wand.

"Amazing how those two traits tend to coincide," Harriet remarked. "Come along." She led the way to the solid wall of rock in which, two years ago, Rhona had cleared a small hole for Harriet and Norah's escape from the Chamber beyond. She handed Hermes her bag; "I'll got first; pass your stuff to me when I'm through." She dived headfirst through the hole.

And got stuck.

* * *

"_No_!" she breathed, straining; her hips—which she had always thought slender—resisted.

"Are you stuck?!" Hermes laughed incredulously behind her. Something clicked.

"Are you taking photographs?" she shrieked indignantly.

"It's for the biography—it's called _How Time Flies_. I rather think _A Moment on the Lips, A Lifetime on the Hips_ would be more appropriate now, though," Hermes said. Harriet kicked out and met her target; Hermes groaned.

"I've let you down," Harriet whimpered, stuck and disbelieving. "I've let myself down! I'm an horrific _beast_!" She couldn't believe she'd got stuck.

"It's alright," Hermes laughed behind her, and she felt the tension around her waist ease up as he carefully moved the rocks around her to widen the passage. "We're getting old and ugly."

"At least we're doing it together," Harriet sighed, scrambling through the hole and turning to take hers and Hermes' things as he prepared to clamber through. They walked down the passage to the glinting emerald eyes of the two stone snakes.

"_Open_."

"Oh…" Hermes gasped softly, as the two halves of the stone entrance parted, revealing the long, dimly-lit chamber. "My…!" Hermes followed Harriet, though slowly, taking everything in, as Harriet marched down to the Basilisk's emaciated head: the skin of the snake was shrivelled, dark emerald-green rather than the vicious poisonous green it had once been, and revealed the skeleton within.

"You defeated this all by yourself?" Hermes whispered, awed, as he paced the length of the twenty-foot Basilisk's corpse.

"You can keep the stunned disbelief to a minimum, thanks," Harriet said dryly.

"No, I mean…you were as tiny as Dennis Creevey in second year…I'd only ever seen pictures of the Basilisk, I'd never imagined…It's difficult to picture the scale, just from numbers," Hermes said, his eyes wide as he stared at the corpse.

"Right—so, these fangs? What do we do?" Harriet asked.

"A Severing Charm—I've been practicing."

"Ominous," Harriet said, raising her eyebrows at Hermes. "How many do you reckon we'll need?"

"One or two, just to be safe," Hermes said, standing over the Basilisk's head. _Safety-first when dealing with antidote-less Basilisk venom_, Harriet thought. "You can always come back if you need more." He pointed his wand at one long fang and muttered something, frowning in concentration. With an echoing _clunk_, the fang fell to the floor, the top cleanly severed. Harriet glanced around as he severed the second: The Chamber seemed smaller now, less fearsome. There was a large expanse of dried blood and ink on the floor by the wall—Harriet's blood, and the diary's.

"Is that where you nearly died?" Hermes whispered; he held out the fangs, which he'd wrapped with utmost care in his Gryffindor scarf.

"Yeah," Harriet sighed. "Come on, let's get out of this infernal place." Hermes followed her, walking backwards, toward the entrance to the Chamber, no doubt memorising what the statue of Salazar Slytherin looked like. The doors slid shut behind them with a faint _hiss_.

* * *

Hermes used a Levitating Charm on both of them, lifting them up the pipe back into Myrtle's bathroom. Padfoot's nose was the first thing Harriet saw and he gave her face a big lick as she clambered out of the pipe, and Harriet tugged Hermes out: "Shall we go, then? Bye, Myrtle."

"Will you come and visit me again, Hermes?" Myrtle asked hopefully.

"Er…I'll try," Hermes said, and ran. Padfoot snickered as he followed them downstairs, and Hermes pointedly did not look at Harriet as she skipped along. Then they reached the Entrance Hall and it started again: the taunting, the snide looks, the flashes of _Harriet the Harlot **Sucks**_. She ducked into a big crowd of Gryffindors waiting to get past Filch and slipped her Cloak on.

"Harriet!" Hermes hissed, glaring at the place where she'd disappeared. "You know I hate talking to you under that infernal thing!"

"Tough! Tell everyone to stop being such bastards and maybe I wouldn't feel the need to hide," Harriet hissed back, passing by Filch.

She felt wonderful as they walked down towards the gate, past Hagrid's cabin and the Beauxbatons carriage and the Abraxans, then into Hogsmeade: Nobody saw her to recite the most cringe-worthy lines of Rita Skeeter's article, to laugh snidely at her as she passed, and though she saw the _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY_ badges, nobody pressed them to change their message for her benefit.

"I'll see you later then," Hermes mumbled, fumbling in his bag for his S.P.E.W. badges.

"An hour, Sirius said," Harriet said quietly, glancing up the lane past _Dervish_ _and_ _Banges_, where there was a spot Sirius could safely reveal himself and Apparate them to London. "I'll meet you outside _Gladrags_."

"Alright," Hermes nodded, looking quite dejected. He looked up in her vague direction and said, his expression lifting, "_Good luck_!"

"Thanks," Harriet breathed: She didn't want to admit it, but this searching for Horcruxes thing was a lot creepier than she'd originally anticipated. She still couldn't get the images of Inferi-babies out of her head, she saw them when she slept. She had been trying very hard to meditate before going to bed, but it was difficult, because the silence in her dormitory every night was so cold it rendered everything impossible. Sirius slipped under the cloak as a man once they were trotting past lovely little thatched cottages with bright autumnal gardens, and besieged her instantly for information on what had happened down in the Chamber of Secrets, "since you haven't seen fit to tell me about _that_ yet!"

By the time they reached a stile at the end of the lane, Harriet had told Sirius exactly what happened in the Chamber of Secrets. He was at once frantic, appalled, and fiercely admiring about her saving of Norah—"Lily and James would have done exactly the same…in fact…James once _did_."

"When you told Snape to poke the Whomping Willow's trunk," Harriet said disapprovingly, eyeing him up. Sirius cringed slightly guiltily.

"Yes…well, I do feel bad about the way I treated people back in those days," Sirius said, as they climbed over the stile carefully. "Your dad and me, we were a regular couple of arrogant little berks."

"Snape was Mum's friend, did you know?" Harriet said quietly, wondering. Sirius paused, glanced at her briefly, and nodded.

"Yes… Nobody ever knew how _that_ happened…he was, I think, rather sweet on her for a time," Sirius said thoughtfully. "We always wondered what Lily could see in him…she must've had her reasons for liking him, though, I think…Here we are."

Harriet glanced around; Sirius offered his arm, and taking a deep breath and wishing they could have used brooms or Floo, she latched onto his forearm and after a few seconds' constricted breathlessness, they appeared—or rather, arrived, as nobody could see them at all, safely beneath her Cloak—in a small unkempt lawn in the centre of a downtrodden Muggle square of what once had been magnificent Georgian townhouses, but now stood grimy and derelict—several of them had broken windows and piles of rubbish out the front of the fenced lawns: in summer, it would have been a dismal spot: in mid-November, it was ten times worse.

"Charming spot," Harriet wrinkled her nose.

"It gets better, believe me," Sirius said darkly, and taking a gentle hold of her wrist, made his way across the road to the pavement, directly outside houses eleven and thirteen. "You've got your wand, Harriet? Tap the fence three times." Harriet did so.

Out of nowhere, between houses eleven and thirteen, appeared a very battered door, followed almost instantly by grimy walls and dirty windows, hung with moth-eaten lace curtains. The gate, with its black paint peeling and the metal rusting, that had expanded in front of number twelve opened as Sirius pushed against it with a squeak, and they made their way through the atrociously-kept garden, up the short path to the worn steps: the front door was black, the scratched and shabby-looking black paint peeling, with a heavy silver doorknocker in the form of a twisted serpent. No keyhole, no letterbox; _Not expecting company_.

"Come on…" Sirius took Harriet's wand gently and tapped the door, murmuring something, and handed her wand back. "And keep your voice down," Sirius whispered hoarsely. Harriet nodded, and they slipped over the threshold into almost total darkness; Sirius closed the front door behind them and tugged off the Cloak, folding it for her: holding her lit wand aloft as Harriet tucked her Cloak into her bag. The light did not go very far: Sirius murmured something and a faint hissing sound of old-fashioned gas lamps filled the long, dismal hall, illuminating a cobwebby chandelier and candelabra of silver, wrought like serpents, the silver-gilt frames of lopsided portraits, blackened with age, the tears in the peeling silk wallpaper, the dust launching into the air with every slight movement on the horrendously mucky rug. Something many-legged scuttled behind the skirting-board and Harriet wrinkled her nose.

"Where are we?" Harriet whispered; even if she hadn't been asked to keep quiet by Sirius, she would have whispered: the atmosphere in here was that of walking into the house of a dying person. Sirius just pressed a slender, clever finger against his lips and led the way quietly to the staircase, which would have once been handsome.

"This is my family's ancestral home," Sirius whispered back dejectedly, as they climbed the stairs, which were lined with faded green carpeting.

"Your—?"

"Yeah…I'm the last Black left, as Regulus is dead…so it's mine now," Sirius sighed heavily, glaring around as they stepped up quietly: Harriet saw a pair of long, moth-eaten curtains, a severed troll's-leg umbrella-stand, and a row of shrunken heads mounted on plaques on the wall: they were _house-elves_, and they each had inherited a rather snout-like nose.

"But this is a Dark wizard's house," Harriet whispered, glimpsing more hints of the pureblood vein—the _Slytherin_ vein: where it wasn't blackened with age, the upholstery on the sparse upholstered furnishings had once been a beautiful emerald-green silk, and the decorations were all serpent-themed. Sirius chuckled darkly.

"Harriet, you know about my brother," he chuckled softly, eyeing the curtains warily over his shoulder.

"Were your parents Death Eaters too?" Harriet whispered. She couldn't imagine Sirius had been born to a family of Dark wizards—but then he could hardly help being related to them, as Harriet couldn't help being related to the biggest family of Muggles anyone could ever meet.

"No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea—they were always angling for the purification of the Wizarding race. I had an aunt who tried to legalise Muggle-hunting."

"They don't really scream the type of people you'd like spending time with," Harriet whispered, wrinkling her nose: the stench of sweetly-rotting wood and fabric filled her nostrils and made it difficult to take large lungfuls of dusty air.

"Ho! No, I was usually the one doing the screaming," Sirius said sourly. "I…I never thought I'd have to come back here ever again."

"I know what you mean," Harriet sighed. Sirius glanced at her; she flushed slightly. "I was so excited when you asked me to live with you—that I'd never have to go back to the Dursleys…" Sirius smiled affectionately at her and cupped her chin.

"When all of this is over, when my name's cleared—we'll be a real family," Sirius promised, smiling, and slipped an arm around her shoulders as they neared the landing.

"Did you live here when you were in the Order?" Harriet asked quietly, glancing around.

"No! I ran away when I was about sixteen," Sirius mused, frowning around as he led them to one of the doors off the landing.

"Where did you go?" Harriet asked softly, glancing around; the drawing-room must, once, have been handsome—olive-green silk covered the walls and moss-green velvet curtains hung in the tall windows; the room was high-ceilinged and filled with large, heavy, dark pieces of furniture similar to what one might find in a Victorian antiques shop.

"Your dad's place," Sirius smiled. "Your grandparents were really good about it—they sort of adopted me as a second-son. When I was seventeen, I got a place of my own—my Uncle Alphard left me a fair bit of gold—but I was always welcome at Mr and Mrs Potter's for Sunday lunch." Sirius was speaking normally now, the door closed behind him: the walls in the drawing-room were covered with grubby tapestries, the carpet exuded great puffs of dust whenever they stepped, and the curtains were buzzing; something made the keys of the grand piano echo inside the casing and it was entirely an eerie place. Harriet could not imagine how Sirius had grown up in a place like this—and how he must have felt, being sorted into Gryffindor when everyone in his family was obsessed with pureblood supremacy. "Mrs Potter made a mean bit of crackling on the roast pork."

"You like crackling?"

"Oh, yeah! Love it—James and me always used to fight over it! Your granddad always had cream, ice-cream and custard with his puddings, _always_," Sirius smiled, but it faded as his eyes found a large floor-length tapestry that glittered dully with golden threads.

"Did Dad have any brothers or sisters?"

"No—I suppose that's why we were so close—we both wanted more satisfying relationships," Sirius sighed. "Mr and Mrs Potter always wanted more children—your dad was…he was 'an extra treasure,' Mrs Potter used to say, he came along when they were already ancient," Sirius bit his lip and concealed a cheeky grin. "They adored him…not unlike Prongsie cherished _you_."

"I saw them, once, my grandparents, except I didn't know they _were_ my grandparents," Harriet said slowly; Sirius frowned at her, mildly bewildered. "In the Mirror of Erised…It showed me my family." Sirius reached out, smiling wistfully, and tenderly touched her cheek.

Harriet smiled: She had found her parents' wedding photographs: her grandparents had indeed been _very_ old when their son married Lily: her grandfather had the same exact nose as her, even though he was probably as old as Professor Dumbledore was now, silver-haired and still with James Potter's moderate good-looks he'd passed down—she had her grandmother's untidy raven hair and cheeky, sort of impish half-grin, and though her eyes were dark as night, they _smiled _the same way Harriet's did: She always smiled with her eyes.

"So… What _are_ we doing back here?" Harriet asked, glancing around.

"Yes…that… I want you to meet someone, someone who knows about the Horcrux you took, or rather, the locket belonging to my great-grandmother Hesper. He's forbidden from speaking to anyone in the Black family about it."

"Regulus?"

"No…Regulus is dead," Sirius said heavily. "It's my mother's beloved house-elf. His name is Kreacher—_Kreacher_, come here!"

* * *

**A.N.**: …debating whether to update the next chapter too, but then I'll only have a backlog of about eight! I'm getting behind! I'm at Christmastime now, and wondering how to bulk up the 'week leading up to Christmas' and the Yule Ball…Oh well, I'll figure something out!

* * *


	52. Kreacher's Tale

**A.N.**: I'm successfully moved into my accommodation for university, so I now have access to a computer—I mean, I had access to it at about 4p.m. yesterday, but since I was hanging out with my new house-mates and going out to the student union bar/club until past midnight then watching CSI and laughing about drunk Dom, I didn't do _any_ writing or anything! But thank you for all your reviews and I hopefully answered all of them! For everyone who reviewed, this is for you!

* * *

**Kreacher's ****Tale…**

* * *

Harriet jumped as some_thing_ Apparated in front of her, something that bowed low and said, in a bullfrog's croak, "_Master Sirius_," and with his fleshy, snout-like noise an inch from his long feet, said, in its low, croaking voice, seeped with resentment, "_spoiled brat of a blood-traitor, what a disappointment he was, nasty, lawless, he broke his mother's heart, how she hated him—how she would weep to see him, standing bold as brass in my mistress's house again_—"

"Enough of that," Sirius sighed, rolling his eyes, glaring. Harriet stared down, gaping, both at what she heard and what she was _seeing_. She was put in mind of Merope Gaunt—except that this was the house-elf version of utmost squalor. Save for the disgustingly-dirty rag draped around his hips like a loincloth, Kreacher the house-elf was completely naked: whilst all house-elves (the ones Harriet had seen so far) were all bald, quite a vast quantity of white ear-hair sprouted from Kreacher's bat-like ears. His skin appeared to be too big for him and his eyes were watery grey and bloodshot.

"Hello, Kreacher," Harriet said kindly. Kreacher's eyes flickered up to her malevolently.

"Good day, madam," he croaked, then muttered furiously under his breath, as if convinced she could not hear him, "Master Sirius has brought a little brat into my mistress's house, and she is speaking to Kreacher as if she is my friend—Kreacher will not allow it; Oh, what would my mistress say if she saw me in such company, with the blood-traitor brat?"

"This is Harriet Potter, Kreacher," Sirius said through clenched teeth, as if he didn't particularly want Harriet to hear him being unkind but couldn't let the house-elf insult her. "Daughter of my friend James—you met him."

"Yes sir," Kreacher croaked, then muttered mutinously, "Master Sirius broke his mother's heart with his lawless ways and his running away, to that blood-traitor friend—unnatural beasts, they were." Harriet bit her lip: In his own way, Kreacher was rather _comical_. Sirius wasn't impressed, but Kreacher lifted his watery bloodshot eyes to Harriet's face, as if he didn't want to be caught looking. "Is it true? Is it Harriet Potter? Kreacher can see her scar, it must be true, that's the little girl who stopped the Dark Lord, Kreacher wonders how she did it—if Master Regulus ever found out, oh, how he would be vexed!"

"Regulus!" Harriet said excitedly, staring down at Kreacher with newfound interest, overriding her disgust. Harriet glanced at Sirius, who quirked his eyebrows, egging her on. "You mean Sirius's brother?"

"Master Regulus had proper pride; he knew what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood," Kreacher croaked. "Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy—yet he returns, ungrateful blood-trait—"

"Kreacher," Harriet interceded him, dropping to her knees and searching through her bag into the inside-pocket, to Regulus's locket. She pulled it out by the chain and dangled it in front of Kreacher's eyes, so it reflected twice in the bloodshot orbs. "Master Regulus served Lord Voldemort, didn't he? What can you tell me about this locket?"

Kreacher gasped loudly, staggering backwards, his eyes filling with tears. "Kreacher, please tell me…" But Kreacher stared at the locket, speechless, something horrifying replaying behind those old, tired eyes.

"Kreacher, I order you to tell Harriet what happened to my brother, and everything you know about the locket," Sirius said from behind them; he had sat down tentatively on the sofa. Kreacher shot Sirius a look of purest loathing but took a shuddering breath and turned his eyes back to Harriet.

"For years, Master Regulus talked of the Dark Lord, who was to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule the Muggles and the Muggle-borns…and when he was sixteen years old, Master Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve… Master Regulus had proper pride, my master and mistress were so _proud_…

"And one day, a year after he had joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher, he was always kind to Kreacher. And Master Regulus said…he said…"

The little old elf had sat down now, hugging his knees and rocking, very fast.

"…he said that the Dark Lord required an elf."

"Voldemort required an _elf_?" Harriet blurted: Sirius looked as bewildered as she felt.

"Oh yes," Kreacher moaned piteously. "And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was an honour, said Master Regulus, an honour for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever the Dark Lord ordered him to do…and then to c-come home." Kreacher was gasping with sobs, rocking quickly on the dusty floor, a torrent of dust swirling around his emaciated little body, with its too-big skin.

"So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord, but the Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave there was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great, black lake…"

Something like icicles slid down Harriet's spine and the fine hairs at the back of her neck stood up. Kreacher's croaking voice seemed to come to her from across that dark water. He saw what had happened as clearly as though he had been present: tall, pale Voldemort, white-faced with his snakelike nose and billowing black robes, and poor little Kreacher, old and unsure, following in his wake around a lake that was unnaturally silent, unnaturally dark…

"There was an island in the middle," Harriet nodded, and Kreacher's eyes widened, nodding. "How did you get to it?"

"…there was a boat…" Kreacher whimpered. Harriet nodded numbly: ghostly, green and tiny, bewitched to register more than one wizard crossing the lake—but it would not register elf-magic, as Voldemort had no doubt not known that Dobby would, perhaps thirteen, fourteen years afterwards, be able to penetrate the Dark defences he had set in place… So he had used a loyal follower's disposable house-elf to test his hypothesis, to safeguard his soul against other sorcerers…

"There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it…" The elf quaked from head to foot.

"Was it green?" Harriet asked, and was not surprised she was whispering. Kreacher moaned and nodded.

"Kreacher drank, and as he drank, he saw terrible things… Kreacher's insides burned… Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed… he made Kreacher drink all the potion… he dropped a locket into the empty basin… he filled it with more potion.

"And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island…" Harriet raised her hands to her mouth; she could see it, Kreacher, parched for water, going to the only place it was available; she shivered and saw the Inferi, the babies and children, the sightless parents and husbands and wives, brothers and sisters Voldemort had killed, climbing over themselves to get to the thief…but she could not see how Kreacher had escaped.

"Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island's edge and he drank from the black lake…and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under the surface…" She glanced at Sirius: Even though his dislike for Kreacher had been apparent, and vice versa, even he looked shocked and repulsed by what he was hearing.

"How did you get away from the Inferi?" Harriet whispered. Kreacher raised his ugly head to Harriet and looked at her with his swimming, bloodshot eyes.

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to come home," Kreacher croaked.

"You Apparated, because he ordered you to return home?" Harriet mused.

"Yes madam," Kreacher croaked.

"_The highest law of the house-elf is his master's bidding_," Harriet remembered softly, looking down at Kreacher. So Voldemort, as well as most of the Wizarding world, thought house-elves to be beneath their notice—that their magic was inferior to their own because they did not use wands, did not understand how it worked and therefore wrote it off… She thought better of telling Hermes of the way Voldemort had treated Kreacher—he might try to kill Voldemort with his bare hands!

"What happened when you got home, what did Master Regulus do?" Harriet asked eagerly, as if Kreacher weren't retelling the horrific tale of her visit to the lake, but a captivating fairy-tale or something. "Did he ask you to tell him what you'd done?"

"Oh, yes, Master Regulus asked, and Kreacher told—Master Regulus was very worried, very worried," Kreacher croaked miserably, his lower-lip quivering and his nostrils glistening with mucus: "Master Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden, and not to leave the house. And then…it was a little while later, several months…Master Regulus was strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher thought, mumbling things of Professor Dumbledore and the brat Master Sirius—Kreacher watched him send letters and he ran errands in Hogsmeade, he spoke of a child the Dark Lord was to kill, who was to bring his downfall should she grow, and Kreacher was ordered not to speak of it to anyone, as Master Regulus was to defy his Master and help 'Sirius's poor little goddaughter' to defeat the Dark Lord, and Kreacher was to guide her any way he could should she follow his clues… and when all was arranged, he did not pack his things for school as my mistress had asked him to do, but asked Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord… Lord Voldemort, Master Regulus had Kreacher call him from then on, as Master Regulus said he was a disgrace to the name and wizard and he was a bad, evil wizard… So Kreacher took him, like a good house-elf…"

Harriet could see it—the frightened old elf, terrified out of his wits because he knew what awaited them, and the thin, dark, handsome Regulus, who in her mind resembled Sirius acutely, though younger… Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance into the cave, he knew where to raise the boat that would register only one wizard sailing across—perhaps Regulus saw the hands and faces of the dead and had been scared, perhaps he was so determined all fear had left him and he had only a burning desire to complete his task…such bravery had Harriet known in previous years… This time it was his beloved Master Regulus who accompanied Kreacher across the lake to the island with its basin of potion.

"Did he _make you drink the potion_?" Harriet gasped, outraged. Kreacher shook his head, his bat-like ears flapping, tears and mucus leaking down his face.

"M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the D—the one _Lord Voldemort_ had," Kreacher said, shivering the way Rhona did every time Harriet said the name; had Regulus ordered to speak Voldemort's name, as only the brave in this world did?—"the one that belonged to my Master Black's beloved grandmother, and he told Kreacher to take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets…"

Harriet stared at him. _Regulus_ had drunk the potion—he had taken it willingly, knowing what would happen, knowing it would incapacitate him, knowing he would thirst for water only accessible from the lake, where the Inferi waited to drag him under the water. Tears sprang unbidden from Harriet's eyes as she stared at Kreacher but did not see him—she saw Regulus, a young version of Sirius, though she saw him in his silver-and-green Slytherin tie, giving orders to the elf who loved him, demonstrating true _Gryffindor_ courage in the face of death, something Lord Voldemort had not nor ever would understand.

"And he ordered—Kreacher to leave—" gasped Kreacher, great pearl-sized tears leaking down his face and pattering against the dusty carpet, his sobs raspy, and rocking: Harriet had to focus to understand him; her own eyes were filled with tears, "—without him. And he told Kreacher—to go home—and never to tell my mistress—what he had done—but to destroy—the first locket. And he drank—all the potion—and Kreacher swapped the lockets—and watched…as Master Regulus…was dragged beneath the water…and…"

"Oh _Kreacher_!" Harriet gasped, tears splashing down her face; she blinked them out of the way and wiped her eyes. Sirius had sprung to his feet, his expression set: Harriet had never seen him look like that since the first day she met him—his eyes were blank, hollow, tortured. She waited, staring, wondering what he'd do.

"Stupid—_foolish boy_!" he shouted, looking almost murderous, and he barrelled out of the room.

* * *

"Sirius?!" she shouted after him, but she heard his footsteps echoing upwards, loud creaking from above; he had not left her here. She turned back to Kreacher, who was sobbing on the floor. "Kreacher… Kreacher, please sit up… please don't cry…here," she rummaged in her bag for her handkerchief, whispered "_Scourgify_!" and handed it to him. "Here, wipe your eyes on this."

She waited as Kreacher sobbed into the handkerchief—Rhona had sent it to her for a birthday; it was embroidered delicately with pink lilies around the edges, with her initials at the corners. A sudden ache in her stomach, not from hunger, but from longing, made her put her hand to her side and pout. She missed her best-friend. Rhona was always good when someone was upset… _Except not any more_, she reminded herself, feeling bitterly alone. She wondered how Sirius felt, being without his best-friend for the last thirteen years, a best-friend he viewed more as a brother. Sirius crashed around upstairs and a few portraits were stirring on the landing, grumbling at the disturbance.

She glanced down at Kreacher: She had never seen anything so pitiful, but she felt Sirius rather needed her company more. "Kreacher, I'll be back in a few minutes, alright, please don't cry…" Kreacher sniffled and wiped his eyes, sobbing, on the handkerchief; she felt it safe to leave him though picked up her bag and went upstairs, following the sound of Sirius's hasty footsteps as he ran around somewhere. She followed the noise, and the woken portrait subjects making their way upstairs, to the very top landing.

"Sirius?" she called softly. There were only two doors: the one facing her bore the nameplate _Sirius_ scrawled in Sirius's carelessly elegant handwriting. The door was not open, however, and the sound came from behind the second door. There were deep scratch marks in the paintwork below a small, pompous little sign that might have appeared on Percy Weasley's door, reading,

_Do Not Enter_

_Without the Express Permission of_

_Regulus Arcturus Black_

* * *

Harriet poked her head around the door: The room was a good-size room, and had a sense of…former grandeur, it must once have been a very handsome room. The silver wallpaper was peeling, and the emerald Slytherin banners dusty and faded on the walls. The tall, thin window and the bed, which had a handsome, carved headboard, were both draped with emerald-green: above the headboard of the bed, what Harriet assumed was the Black family crest had been painstakingly painted, along with a motto, in French; _Toujours Pur_. A raggedy collage of yellowed newspaper clippings had been stuck below the painting. A trunk stood open at the foot of the bed—a Hogwarts trunk—and a clear inch of dust covered the contents, a jumble of school robes, spellbooks, old magazines, an old broomstick, a set of Slytherin Quidditch robes, and Regulus's best pair of school-robes had been set out on the end of his bed, something small, silver and serpent-shaped glinting dully under the dust on the lapel of the robes: Regulus had been a class prefect.

Sirius stood at the window, below which stood a small, handsome writing-desk, his back slumped, hands splayed on the leather upholstering the top of the desk, his head bowed over something, and Harriet thought he might be crying; his breathing was ragged.

"Sirius?" she said gently. There were whispers and mild jeering from the subjects of a portrait above the dresser, which had a clear inch of dust on it. Sirius whirled around, looking fierce and upset, but he relaxed when he saw it was only her.

"Oh…hi," he said dully, settling down on the bed; a small puff of dust rose as he sat and he waved it away impatiently with one hand, his other clutching something yellowed. Harriet made her way over tentatively and sat down carefully not to disturb more dust.

"What've you got?" she asked, glancing at the thing in Sirius's hand.

"Letter," Sirius croaked, and cleared his throat. He showed her a small yellowed envelope with his name written on the front. "It's the reply to the letter I sent him…"

"What does it say?" Harriet asked gently. Sirius licked his lips and glanced at her; he slipped the neat little letter out of the envelope and handed it to Harriet.

* * *

_Dear Sirius__,_

_I know now why you separated yourself from our family—I realise now you were right, all along. But I never had the same strength you did, I could never have given everything up. What I thought was everything._

_I know about the Potters' daughter—your goddaughter—I know Voldemort is after her. And I know why—he thinks he'll prevent a prophecy by attacking her. You have to protect her, you have to, with your life._

_You must protect her, so she grows, so she can defeat Voldemort, and you must help her to do it. Tell her I have already begun it, that I discovered his secret: She must destroy his Horcrux. I will help her as best I can, I will steal it, and hopefully have Kreacher destroy it. I know you will do everything in your power to help her and protect her._

_I am going now, and I bid you a very belated farewell, and I want you to know that, had I the chance now, I would have been proud to join you, proud to be in the Order, proud to be your brother again,_

_Regulus_

_P.S. Do you remember when this photograph was taken?__ It's the only copy, and I want you to have it._

* * *

Harriet licked her lips and reached into the little envelope for a small square white-bordered photograph, of two young boys with identical high cheekbones and cheeky, impish grins full of laughter, eyes twinkling: they were dressed as Muggle children in jeans and t-shirts, though Sirius also wore a zip-up jumper. Regulus's face was still rounded with youth, almost darkly angelic, his cheeks round and rosy.

"I was ten, when I took that photograph," Sirius said, smiling gently. "I was about to turn eleven, Regulus had just turned seven. I snuck us out of the house and we took a bus across the city, went to the circus. He loved the trapeze-artists… I bought him some candy-floss, and the clown knocked it out of his hands when he ran past," Sirius's eyes lit up and he smiled, chuckling softly. "I didn't have any more Muggle money, so I ran onstage and stole the clown's wig—and I threatened I wouldn't give it back until he bought Regulus another candy-floss."

"That sounds like something you'd do!" Harriet beamed, laughing. "I bet he did buy another one."

"It was twice as big as the first," Sirius laughed, "and Regulus threw up all the way home… It was so much fun though…just us, no parents…we were still close, then…"

"What happened?" Harriet asked, folding the letter neatly, slipping it back into the envelope. She handed it back to Sirius and he tucked it into an inside pocket of his robes.

"Well—I got back from Hogwarts after my first year, after being sorted into Gryffindor house, to hear what a disappointment I was, how I'd disgraced the family name and our pureblood honour by being stuck with the blood-traitors and Muggle-borns… He was still a baby then…I never spent any time at home if I could avoid it, stayed at Hogwarts with Moony and your dad over Easter, James always invited us to stay at his for Christmas… Never saw much of him, really, 'til he started Hogwarts. And he was sorted into Slytherin, so…" He trailed off sadly.

"That's him, over there, in the photograph, in the middle," Sirius said, pointing to the dresser; there was a photograph framed there, and Harriet had to use a Scouring Charm on it to remove the dust. The photograph was of a Hogwarts Quidditch team—silver snakes were emblazoned on their chests. Regulus was instantly recognisable, even if Sirius hadn't pointed him out she would have noticed, as he was _absolutely_ like his brother. He had the same glossy, satiny dark hair and the same slightly haughty look about him, though he was rather less-handsome than his elder brother. He was smaller and slighter than Sirius, and he sat in the centre.

"He played Seeker?" Harriet murmured; Sirius grunted softly. Regulus sat in the centre of the front row, where the Seeker sat, where she herself had sat for the photograph of last year's Quidditch team—the _winning_ Quidditch team led by Oliver, the first Gryffindor team in six or seven years to defeat the Slytherins. She carried the photograph over to Sirius; he looked miserable. Regulus waved up, stood up and walked closer to them, smiling. Harriet glanced at her godfather.

"Are you alright?" she asked tenderly, placing the photograph in her lap. Sirius exhaled through his nose and made a choked sort of noise in his throat.

"I…I loved the idea of having James as a best-friend and a brother so much that I forgot…forgot that I already _had_ a brother," Sirius said quietly, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I ran away from home, I _abandoned_ him…"

"You couldn't be where you weren't wanted," Harriet said gently. "It would've destroyed you—or you'd've ended up blowing them up or something."

"Yes, like one's Aunt Marge," Sirius said, with a tart, impish little smirk. Harriet flushed and fought not to grin too largely. Sirius looked down at the photograph of his younger-brother—at the happiest memory he had of them both together—and gave a constricted sigh.

"I should never have made it so that he felt he couldn't talk to me," Sirius said, shaking his head and resting it in his hand, hiding his eyes. "I should've been there… Trust him to go and be _noble_! He'd know it'd make me sick!" He looked like he was about to laugh, but instead his features crumpled and he hid his face in his hands; he did not cry, but he made no other sound either. Harriet didn't know what to do, and settled with resting her hand on his shoulder and waiting. Eventually he glanced up again, and gave her a weak smile.

"What a pair we make, hm?"

"Yeah, we're a regular couple of donuts!" Harriet tutted, kicking her legs slightly into the valance, glancing down at Regulus, who beamed at her from the Quidditch-team photograph. Sirius laughed and rumpled her hair roughly; Harriet wrinkled her nose playfully and flicked her plaits over her shoulders. Sirius examined her face with his searing grey eyes and his face crumpled again.

"Sometimes you are _uncannily_ like them," he said hoarsely. He looked so miserable… Harriet slipped her arms around his neck and hugged him.

"…I love you," she mumbled, and it was true. Over the last two and a half months, she had grown to love him more dearly than anything—maybe not Hermes and Rhona (she forgot momentarily that they weren't talking)—but she couldn't bear to see him upset. Sirius hugged her fiercely for a moment then pushed her back, smoothing her hair from her face where it had fallen out of its plaits.

"They would love you _so much_ if they knew you now," he whispered hoarsely, cupping her chin in his hand. "if indeed it was possible for them to love you any fiercer than they already did when you were a baby…"

"Are you ready to come back downstairs?" Harriet asked. "Kreacher might've calmed down by now."

"Yes, let's get this over with," Sirius sighed, standing up, holding her hand. "You've got Honeydukes orders to fill."

"Oh—" Harriet stopped Sirius, tugging on his hand and giving him a very stern look she'd learned from Hermes. "And _be_ _nice to Kreacher_."

"Why? He's always hated me," Sirius pouted.

"Treat others as you wish to be treated—as Undersecretary to the Founder of the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare, you'd best hope I don't tell Hermes how you talk to him," she said tartly. Sirius opened his mouth, looking incredulous—but perhaps the threat of her telling Hermes about his disdain of Kreacher made him think better of arguing.

"_Fine_. Come on," he sighed, seeing no way out, and he led the way back downstairs, still holding her hand tenderly. Kreacher's muffled choking gasps echoed dully in the first-floor landing and they found him, sitting up now, no longer crying, the handkerchief sodden and gross on the dusty floor beside him, looking how Harriet was sure she did (though not to such a pitifully disgusting extent as unfortunate-looking Kreacher) after she had been crying.

"Kreacher…are you alright now?" she asked delicately. He gave a mighty sniff and a hollow sigh, and held the handkerchief out to her.

"Kreacher thanks the little madam," he croaked dully, though respectfully: he did not mutter anything afterwards. Harriet eyed the handkerchief, and muttered an inaudible Scouring Charm before she took it back, tucking it into her bag.

"Is it alright if we ask you more questions, Kreacher?" Sirius asked, and Harriet smiled at his polite tone, with an attempt at being kindly. Kreacher grumbled and nodded. Harriet licked her lips and glanced from Sirius to Kreacher.

"Kreacher, you brought the locket home, didn't you?" she prompted. "You tried to destroy it, as Regulus asked you?"

"Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it," moaned the elf, his voice throaty and miserable. "Kreacher tried everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work…so many powerful spells upon the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open… Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his mistress was mad with grief, because Master Regulus had disappeared, and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-family what happened in the c-cave…"

"Kreacher, when you couldn't destroy the locket, where did you put it?" Sirius asked, frowning. Kreacher sniffed heartily, moaning, and stood up slowly, tiredly; he took Harriet by the hem of her skirt and pulled her over to one of the handsome black glass-fronted cabinets, two of which stood either side of the large fireplace, and were filled with, "Mistress Black's most prized treasures, madam." Among the odd assortment of Wizarding things Harriet had never seen, there was a delicate little silver snuffbox, a pretty musical box, a collection of ancient seals like the family crest in Regulus's bedroom, an Order of Merlin, First Class, and—

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**A.N.**: Mwahaha!

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	53. and His Orders Fulfilled

**A.N.**: Hiya! I'm back! Thanks for the reviews, and to all of you who were wondering about the error in the beginning of cha 52, I _was_ going to have Harriet attacked by a ton of Slytherins and have her be in the hospital wing—and I forgot to change the beginning of cha 52! I've fixed it, though! Please enjoy!

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…**and His ****Orders Finally Fulfilled**

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"The locket!" Harriet breathed. There it was, lying on the middle shelf, made of gold, clumsily wrought with an elaborate _S_ on the oval, with a heavy gold chain coiled around it on the glass shelf. She reached for the little serpentine handle of the cabinet, but Sirius tutted and tugged her sleeve.

"I don't think so," he said, stepping in: He took Harriet's wand for a moment, held it pointing to the cabinet, murmured several charms and handed the wand back, opening one of the glass doors. He took the locket out, weighed it, and closed the cabinet door. He examined the locket for a moment before handing it to Harriet. "And now we destroy it."

"Now we destroy it," Harriet breathed. She went back to the centre of the room, where her bag was, and where a clear patch of carpet marked where Kreacher had been rolling around in emotional agony: She stooped down, set the locket on the floor face-up and rummaged in her bag; she unrolled Hermes' scarf carefully so that she touched neither of the Basilisk fangs and set them out carefully.

"One each, do you reckon, just in case?" Sirius said, frowning at the locket. "He'll have put curses on it, I'd expect, some form of protection, on the casing as Kreacher said."

"The locket belonged to Slytherin…" Harriet mused, eyeing the _S_ engraved into the gold; it flickered like a serpent in the wand- and lamplight. She glanced at Kreacher. "It's no wonder you couldn't destroy it, Kreacher, Regulus couldn't have done it, either… I think only a Parselmouth could have opened the locket."

"Lucky we've got one on-hand," Sirius smiled: He squatted down and took one of the Basilisk fangs in his fist.

"Alright… On the count of three, I'll open it, and we strike," Harriet said to Sirius, as she took the second fang. "Each of us go for one side." Sirius nodded. Kreacher watched them with eyes widened fearfully, also slightly awed. "One…two…three… _Open_," she hissed at the locket. With a soft _click_, the two panels opened and lay flat on the carpet: two glass-fronted panels for portraits were visible for a split-second before eyes—handsome dark eyes, dark eyes of Tom Riddle, frantically swivelling—appeared there. Harriet tightened her grip on her fang, bracing herself to strike, imagining blood pouring from the empty windows…

"Strike…"

But a voice hissed from out of the Horcrux, a voice Harriet knew only from her dreams, and though the voice spoke only to her, Sirius froze also, as if it too was piercing his very heart.

"_Harriet Potter…I know your fears, and I know your desires…both are possible…_"

"_STAB!_" Harriet said, but she was frozen. The voice, again;

"_Your parents needn't have died, you know this—they sacrificed themselves for you…yet you throw this away for the man beside you, poor replacement for your father's love… You replace your friend Rhona with another girl, though deep down I see you are grieving, in pain, every day, for your loss…the girl will always overshadow you, always be prettiest, taller, always be the ones the boys choose, for she is not awkward, she has no ugly scar carved into her forehead, she does not have to wonder if she killed her parents…_"

The locket quivered on the floor and Harriet stared, transfixed, mortified, knew it wasn't true but couldn't help herself: out of the right-hand window, the one she had designated herself to strike with the Basilisk fang that was no longer in her grasp, something—_two_ somethings blossomed like grotesque bubbles, distorted, the heads of her parents. Harriet yelled and backed away, startled: beside her, Sirius reacted the same way but he was not seeing the same thing, he was looking to the left. Riddle-James now spoke, his voice high and cold as Voldemort's had been;

"_We should never have had you. We were better off without you, happier without you, alive, when you were not, nobody would have harmed us had you never been born_…"

"_Had you never been born_," Riddle-Lily echoed: She was ferociously beautiful, fearsome and unnatural; Harriet stared, transfixed. "_We could have been happy, if we hadn't had you…we could have had babies, babies who wouldn't have destroyed us… We never wanted a child so young…never wanted you…you were a mistake, you should never have been born. You're the reason we're dead_—"

But something greyish lunged at the locket and there was a prolonged, high-pitched scream.

The monstrous versions of her parents were gone. Standing over the shattered locket was Kreacher, a Basilisk fang in each hand, his expression rather impassioned. Harriet and Sirius both collapsed on the floor on their bums with staggering gasps: tears that Harriet hadn't notice form slipped down her cheeks and Sirius's eyes glistened as he hastily brushed his cheek.

"Kreacher!" he breathed, clenching his eyes shut. "What've you done?"

* * *

"Kreacher has fulfilled Master Regulus's orders, Master," Kreacher croaked; his eyes were wide, haunted, but his expression was set as he glowered down at the locket. Harriet wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jumper and blinked furiously, scrambling to her knees. "Kreacher has destroyed the locket."

"Thank you, Kreacher," she whispered, staring at the locket: Kreacher had pierced two sizzling holes into it, one in either portrait glass. The stained silk beneath the glass was sizzling, burning away: Whatever had lived inside the locket, the Horcrux, had disappeared, destroyed: Torturing them had been its final act: Harriet pretended not to notice how Sirius had his hand over his eyes and his jaw was set as if trying not to cry. Harriet knelt, staring at the locket.

She hadn't been able to do it. It should have been so easy—she knew her parents would never have said those things, never even thought them—she should have known Riddle would use her insecurities against her…but she didn't. She hadn't been able to do it. She wiped her cheeks and sighed. "Thank you, Kreacher," she said again, this time her voice stronger. "Thank you, I…thank you."

Kreacher bowed low to her, setting the Basilisk fangs back on the scarf still spread out on the floor. Harriet went to the locket and gingerly picked it up; it was quite cool, but there was the smell of burnt silk, and the catch was broken now, it did not close properly; the fangs had just pierced the outer shell, with two holes made as if by knitting-needles.

"Kreacher, you know since Harriet is my goddaughter, I'm her legal guardian, she's part of my family now. If she asks you to do something, calls on you in future, I would like you to treat her requests as orders," Sirius said, getting to his feet; there were large patches of thick dust on his knees.

"Madam has honoured Master Regulus's will to destroy the locket and honours the family name—Master Regulus told Kreacher of her and her desperate situation. Kreacher would be proud to serve the little lady Master Regulus esteemed so even as a babe," Kreacher croaked.

"Yeah, er…alright…" Harriet mumbled embarrassedly as Kreacher stooped into another low bow. Sirius caught her eye; _Yes, you were polite enough_, she smiled.

Sirius checked a pocket-watch and jumped. "It's nearly noon, Harriet, we told Hermes you'd be back in an hour."

"Oh. Well… I supposed this is goodbye for now, Kreacher," Harriet said, smiling kindly. Harriet stooped and wrapped up the Basilisk fangs and the broken locket in Hermes' scarf.

Sirius reached into Harriet's bag and pulled out Great-Grandmother Hesper's locket, and held it to Kreacher, the locket glinting on the chain. Harriet liked that locket—it was smallish, plain but very elegant.

"Here, Kreacher, have this—Regulus would've rewarded you for carrying out his orders," Sirius said. "He always did."

The elf took one look at the locket, let out a howl of shock and misery and threw himself down onto the ground, screaming with tears.

"I told you to be nice to him, not give him a heart-attack!" Harriet said, staring. "What did you _do_?"

"Must be shock," Sirius said contemplatively, examining Kreacher on the floor with mild interest. "We never admired each other, even when I was a boy."

It took them nearly half an hour to calm Kreacher down. So overcome was he to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very, by the boy who had always disliked and mistreated him, was too much for him; he couldn't stand properly. When finally he could stand properly, he swept into low bows for both Harriet and Sirius, and his attitude towards the latter had changed dramatically.

"Will sir be requiring Kreacher's assistance, Master Sirius?" he asked, even eagerly.

"Er…Not at the moment, Kreacher," Sirius said, taken aback. Harriet smiled and focused on everything else in the drawing-room.

"Will sir be returning to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black soon, sir?" Kreacher asked hopefully. At this, Sirius looked very darkly around the room.

"Not until it's fit for human habitation, Kreacher," he said heavily, glancing around. Kreacher bowed low. "And not for quite some time—I'll be with Harriet."

"Perhaps in the summer," Harriet suggested, smiling kindly at Kreacher, who held Regulus's locket with utmost tenderness in his hands, gazing at it amorously. Kreacher looked up, his bat-like ears straightening out with hope. "After I've finished school, maybe I can come and stay here with you, over the summer. Maybe Hermes and… Maybe they'd like to stay in this great house." It _was_ a great house, had once been grand, and Harriet knew to compliment the house was to endear her only greater in Kreacher's eyes. And if she'd learned anything of house-elves, it was always advisable to befriend them if one could, and treat them as equals.

"Kreacher will show you out," Kreacher said, bowing low.

"Hold on, Kreacher," Sirius called softly, running the length of the room to a little occasional table beside a grand winged armchair, on which a little curved casket stood with a clear inch of dust on it. Sirius gingerly turned the tiny silver key and lifted the lid, and grimaced. "Harriet, your wand, please?" Harriet handed it over, and Sirius performed a Scouring Charm on the box, closed the lid, turned the key, returned Harriet's wand and asked she put the box in her bag, without offering any explanation. Kreacher led them back downstairs, and Harriet remembered to keep quiet, though didn't know why.

"Goodbye, Kreacher," Harriet whispered, tugging her Invisibility Cloak out of her bag; Sirius hid his body beneath, holding a fold out for her; Kreacher beamed, opened the door, and Harriet hid, Sirius covering his head, and they slipped out of the house;

"Goodbye, little madam, Master Sirius," Kreacher said quietly, and when they reached the end of the path, he was still standing in the doorway with his hands clasped around Regulus's locket. As soon as they were on the pavement, the house disappeared; Kreacher must have closed the door. Sirius clanged the gate shut and they went back to the square of grass in the centre of the square.

"Did you see them?" Harriet said quietly, glancing at Sirius; his light grey eyes flickered over her face and he licked his lips, returning his eyes to the lawn as they reached it.

"Among other things," he said softly. Harriet wondered what his deepest insecurities were, as she had always thought of him as the most stalwart, fearless protector. Sirius Apparated them back to Hogsmeade, by the stile, and both with quite a lot to think about, they made their way back towards the village square: Sirius as a dog, even though Harriet suggested he used the Invisibility Cloak—but he daren't, because "Mad-Eye's mad eye can see _through_ Invisibility Cloaks, and even if he is retired from the Ministry, instincts like his don't just die down overnight."

But Harriet had her orders for Hogsmeade; peanut brittle for Sirius, a selection of chocolate bars to send to Remus, fudge flies (Sirius knew they had always been given to Kreacher by Regulus as a special treat) and enough chocoballs to fill the Sirius's casket. She forgot about the taunting and the badges as she walked back into the village square, the High Street: She saw the badges flashing everywhere, as she no longer wore the Cloak, but seeing as she just destroyed (or _Kreacher_ just destroyed, but she had made it happen by opening the locket in the first place) a piece of Voldemort's soul, she realised she should be in a _very_ good mood, and nobody should be able to dampen her spirits: the day was crisp, cool, everything frosted like a Narnia just thawing out; it wasn't snowing yet, but it would only be a few weeks.

* * *

Hermes stood outside _Gladrags Wizardwear_, glancing around anxiously for any sign of her; his face broke out into a great smile of relief, and she sped up to meet him, ignoring the flashes of _Harriet the Harlot **Sucks**_.

"How'd it go?" he breathed; Harriet plunged her hand into her bag and brought out the mangled remains of Slytherin's locket. "Congratulations! How did you do it?"

"Well…" Harriet glanced around and froze. Rita Skeeter, today in brilliant teal robes with acid-green feathers, came sauntering out of the Three Broomsticks the other side of the square, with her paunchy photographer friend, apparently deep in a hushed conversation. "Let's get inside, out of her way," Harriet said urgently, and they both ducked into _Gladrags_ with Padfoot.

"I overheard her talking a little while ago," Hermes said, eyeing Rita Skeeter through the window as she strutted past with her photographer friend. "She's staying in the village—I'll bet anything she's coming to watch the first task."

Harriet's stomach flooded with a wave of molten panic. She had completely forgotten about the first tournament. Not that the other students made it easy to forget she was a champion, but she hadn't thought about the first task, what with being attacked, battling Inferi, and today her insecurities. Now, however, with the locket Horcrux behind her and only the first task ahead, she started panicking.

"Oh…" Hermes said quietly, catching sight of her expression; they'd come to an unspoken agreement: Neither of them mentioned the first task. As much as Harriet had forgotten about it, Harriet thought Hermes couldn't bear to think about it, and what might happen to Harriet during it. "So…you wanted socks, for Dobby, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Harriet said, remembering her vow only moments ago to not let anyone ruin her stride. Her mood swung upwards as she and Hermes picked out the most lurid socks—she didn't even bother buying them in pairs, but mixed and matched the most brilliant-patterned ones, having a lot of fun doing so, and got the shopkeeper to wrap them as a present for her.

"Good luck with the first task, Harriet!" he called after her, as she and Hermes opened the door for Padfoot. Harriet shot a strained smile over her shoulder at the man and the bell tinkled overhead as the door swung shut.

"Where next?" Hermes asked briskly, glancing around and squinting in the silvery, wintry sunlight.

"Honeydukes," Harriet said, and they made their way across the square to the sweetshop, which wasn't as packed as it usually was because most students were still up at Hogwarts: She fulfilled Remus's monthly order of chocolate bars, got a large bag of fudge flies for Kreacher, the shopkeeper had to use a small mallet to break up a large block of peanut brittle for Sirius, and she and Hermes had a lot of fun taste-testing the new chocoball flavour—warm apple chunks and cinnamon, coated with crumble and drizzled with a thin layer of milk-chocolate—and picked out thirty-odd small 1-inch chocoballs to go in Sirius's box.

"So where to now?" Hermes asked, digging through a bag of his favourite, pistachio and almond nougat chunks.

"How about the Three Broomsticks?" Harriet suggested. "Padfoot's allowed in there." Padfoot sniffed at Harriet's bag, in which she'd put her Honeydukes purchases, and barked happily at what he smelled: they made their way over to the Three Broomsticks. It was packed with people—students mostly—but also an odd assortment of characters Harriet rarely saw anywhere else, even in Diagon Alley. Hags, who weren't as adept as wizards at disguising themselves, gimlet-eyed goblins, Gilbert Wimple with his horns—there were tiny witches up from London for a bit of quiet shopping, a few parents had stopped by to see their children in between holidays, and someone who looked suspiciously like a vampire, drinking something very dark red out of a crystal goblet, Madam Rosmerta watching him beadily from behind the bar, as he sat close to a group of pretty, giggling girls who must have noticed his cheekbones. There were several of the boys from Durmstrang enjoying firewhiskey and a table of Beauxbatons girls sipping little glasses of red wine as they examined purchases from _Madam Primpernelle's_ delightedly and sifted through grab-bags of Honeydukes sweets.

"You go and find us a table, Hermes, I'll get the drinks," Harriet said, and Hermes nodded, followed by Padfoot, and went to an empty table in a corner by the smoky leather boots, which were filled with people taking their lunch in the vibrant, warm atmosphere of the pub.

"Ah, Harriet!" Madam Rosmerta beamed, cleaning a spotless glass and stowing it above her head. Madam Rosmerta was very pretty, and since last year had become very prone to talking to Harriet whenever she could—last Hogsmeade visit she'd had them all (all, including Hermes _and_ Rhona) rolling in their seats, crying with laughter, telling them stories about her dad "_and his best-friend; oh, they were a cheeky pair!_"

"Hello, Madam Rosmerta," Harriet smiled: Madam Rosmerta always said she looked "_a lot prettier than usual_" when she smiled.

"What can I get for you this afternoon?" Madam Rosmerta smiled.

"Er…two Butterbeers, please," Harriet smiled.

"Oh, _look_, Draco, it's the _Champion_," someone simpered mockingly, as Rosmerta busied herself behind the bar. Harriet rolled her eyes and resisted temptation. "How much did _you_ bet she'd not make it through the first task, Draco?" Harriet glanced to her side; Pansy Parkinson sat perched on a stool; Draco Malfoy was sipping his Butterbeer and pointedly not answering his friend.

"You know, I rather think that Rita Skeeter must be touched in the head," Pansy continued, undeterred. "'_Strikingly beautiful_,' her! What was she comparing against, goblins?" Harriet sighed heavily and turned to Pansy.

"At least I don't look worse than a robber's dog," she said sweetly, smiling. She mimicked panting and yapping like a small dog, and Draco Malfoy's mouth twitched around his Butterbeer glass. Pansy Parkinson's face fell, her nostrils turned white. A joyous laugh sparkled in the air and Harriet glanced over her shoulder at Yolande, who had just entered the pub with her brother and Sasha, and they all looked highly amused by Harriet's behaviour.

"Come on, Draco; let's not sit near that half-blood _scum_!" Pansy said tartly, sliding off her stool, with her pug nose in the air as she scuttled away. Malfoy shot Harriet a very tart little smirk as he followed her, his grey eyes twinkling.

"Here you are, deary," Madam Rosmerta smiled, handing Harriet two foaming Butterbeers. Harriet handed her the sickles she required and picked up the glasses. "Good luck for Tuesday, Harriet—I've got tickets to come and watch," Madam Rosmerta beamed.

"H-have you?" Harriet said, feeling her stomach flip-flop unpleasantly.

"Half the village is turning out for it," Madam Rosmerta beamed. "We'll be having a big celebration down here afterwards in your honour."

"I hope you're honouring Cedric Diggory too," Harriet smiled, though she got the feeling Cedric wasn't getting the attention he _should_ for being the Hogwarts champion—the _legitimate_, unquestionable champion.

"Of course, dear!" Madam Rosmerta smiled, though Harriet thought she saw her look a little embarrassed for a moment—she'd forgotten Cedric. "He's the handsome boy over there, by the fire, isn't he?" Harriet glanced over at the enormous fireplace and nodded; Cedric Diggory sat amongst a throng of admirers and friends, all toasting him and laughing raucously.

"Yup, that's him," Harriet smiled.

"And are you two…?" Madam Rosmerta whispered, beaming eagerly; Harriet flushed.

"No," she said, taking the Butterbeers.

"He would be a lucky boy to catch you," Madam Rosmerta winked, and turned to serve handsome Sasha and the beautiful Doré siblings. Harriet winded her way through the tables and other standing customers; it would have been difficult in the Cloak to get past people without jostling them and raising concerns—she saw Rhona sitting in a corner with Dean, kissing, their Butterbeers forgotten: Seamus sat with Lavender and Parvati, looking thoroughly dejected.

"Missing your best-friend?" she asked knowingly, and Seamus nodded miserably, sipping his Butterbeer: Dean and Rhona had become a package-deal, they were always latched on to each other. Harriet edged through the crowd towards Hermes: He sat with his S.P.E.W. badge-box out and was scribbling in his notebook. "I thought that was my job!" Hermes glanced up and smiled, putting his _Flourish and Blotts_ bag on the floor and freeing her chair. She handed him his Butterbeer and sat down.

"I just thought I'd make a few notes," Hermes smiled.

"Did you get any new members?" Harriet asked interestedly. It wasn't exactly the right time to tell Hermes about Kreacher, but she would; he'd be thrilled she stood up for elf-rights.

"Quite a few actually, more than I expected," Hermes beamed proudly. "And I've been talking to those goblins," he nodded at the group of gimlet-eyed goblins enjoying some smoking drink, talking in low voices, "about how they secured a representative at the Ministry, and how the Goblin-Liaison Office was founded… It won't be easy, I'll tell you!" Hermes sighed, sipping his Butterbeer; There were about ten new names on the very short list beneath Hermes' name, Rhona's and Harriet's—with their titles: Founder, Treasurer, Official Secretary. "What did Pansy Parkinson have to say? Draco Malfoy looked highly amused."

"Oh—usual," Harriet rolled her eyes. "Comparing me to goblins, that sort of thing—so I called her a 'robber's dog'."

"You definitely know how to make friends and influence people," Hermes chuckled, still scribbling.

"Yeah…speaking of that—half the village is coming to watch the first task," Harriet said quietly, sipping her Butterbeer so she could glance over inconspicuously at Cedric's group. Every single person in the group was wearing a _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY_ badge, one wore an S.P.E.W. badge (she was a pretty, curly haired Ravenclaw in Hermes' Arithmancy class). But _Cedric_ wasn't wearing a badge—S.P.E.W. or otherwise—and that made Harriet feel a little bit better about the queasy feeling in her stomach. She sighed and sipped her Butterbeer, wondering what it would have been like had her name _not_ come out of the Goblet.

She'd perhaps be enjoying a Butterbeer _with_ Cedric, in that big group, ready to support him in the trials he was about to face, guessing what deadly dangerous task he had to face, giving him tips on how to just take a deep breath and clear his head if he got into bother. She wondered how the other champions were feeling…every time she saw Cedric, like today, he was surrounded by a big group of admirers, looking nervous but highly excited. Florent Delacour looked as he always did, haughty, unruffled, contemptuous of everything but his reflection. Viktoria Krum spent a lot of time in the library—which irritated Hermes, as her fan-club tended to start whispering and jostling, wondering whether they should ask for her autograph, and he found the noise distracting, and couldn't understand what the boys were so worked up about, "She isn't even very beautiful! They only like her because she's _famous_!" But Viktoria sat in the library, poring over books: Harriet had wondered a few times whether she was revising or whether she was looking up things to help her in the first task…something Harriet definitely had _not_ been doing.

A tight knot clamped in her stomach and she had to sip her Butterbeer to get it to ease up a bit. The first task was on Tuesday, at one o'clock, after morning lessons had ended. She had only two and a half days.

"Oh, look! It's Hagrid!" Hermes said brightly. Hagrid's shaggy dark head rose above the rest of the crowd, and Harriet wondered why she hadn't seen him before, but then she realised he had been leaning low, talking to Professor Moody: Sirius had been right in thinking Moody would be here, with his magical all-seeing eye. They both stood up to leave, and Harriet waved: Moody paused, poked Hagrid in the small of the back as he couldn't reach his shoulder, and muttered something in Hagrid's ear when he bent down, and the two of them made their way over to their corner.

"All right, Hermes?" Hagrid said loudly over the noise of the pub.

"Yeah, thanks Hagrid," Hermes smiled.

"Harrie', yeh alright?" Harriet didn't trust herself to speak; Hagrid had started asking her this on Monday, with a week and one day to the first task, beginning a countdown and looking more anxious with every passing day. Hagrid bent down on the pretext of reading Hermes' S.P.E.W. notebook, and said in a whisper so low only Harriet could hear him, "Harrie', meet me tonight at midnight at me cabin. Wear your Cloak." He straightened up, winked, and said, "Nice ter see yeh both." He and Moody then departed, leaving Harriet feeling slightly bemused.

"Why's he want me to meet him at midnight?" she wondered.

"_Does he_?" Hermes' eyebrows rose. He frowned after Hagrid. "I wonder what he's up to."

"Dunno…"

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**A.N.**: Please review!

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	54. Horcruxes, the Horntail and Hermes' Help

**A.N.**: Hi! I am still alive, if you were wondering! I thought I'd add another chapter for Frank cos he's so incessant ;D

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**Horcruxes, t****he Hungarian Horntail, and Hermes' Helping Hand**

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Harriet didn't go directly up to the common-room after dinner: she spoke Dumbledore's password to the gargoyle outside his office and was admitted upstairs, knocked and was allowed inside.

Professor Dumbledore stood stroking Fawkes and smiling contentedly. He glanced up, half-moon spectacles flashing, and smiled.

"How did it go?" he asked breathlessly. Harriet grinned and tugged the shattered remains of the locket out of her pocket. "Oh, _very good_!" Dumbledore beckoned her excitedly to the desk; he sat down at his throne and Harriet placed the locket on his desk, perching on her usual chair in front of him. Dumbledore held up the locket by both frames, peering down his nose at the seared holes in the metalwork.

"Mm…Basilisk venom?" he shot at her, arching an eyebrow. So Harriet took a deep breath and began from the beginning, at breakfast, talking to Hermes, his idea, going back down into the Chamber of Secrets—then getting to London with Sirius, the Black ancestral home, Kreacher's tale—she skipped the part about Sirius running to his brother's room—and the finding of the locket-Horcrux: how she and Sirius had prepared to stab the locket with the fangs when she opened it using Parseltongue, but how the locket had tortured them both with their own insecurities, and how Kreacher had taken up their dropped fangs and stabbed the locket, fulfilling Regulus's orders—and how Sirius had given Kreacher the fake locket in gratitude.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair, somehow rendered a little speechless, only _smiling_ at her.

Back in the common room, under cover of the noise Fred and George were making, Harriet told Hermes everything—he was stark-faced and wide-eyed by the end of the tale, horrified by Voldemort's actions towards Kreacher, admiring of Harriet's kindness towards him, and of _Regulus's_ obvious kindness to Kreacher.

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At half-past eleven that night, when the common-room was emptying of younger students, Harriet had slipped upstairs for her Cloak, and returned back down, invisible: she saw the little Creevey brothers at a table; they had got hold of a batch of _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY_ badges and were attempting to change them to say _Support HARRIET POTTER_: So far, without Hermes' help, they'd managed to get the badges to stick to _HARRIET THE HARLOT __**SUCKS**_. Harriet had suggested they ask Hermes to help them, "_when Hermes gets back from the loo_."

Hermes opened the portrait hole for her on the pretext of returning from the bathroom, and Harriet whispered her thanks as she slipped out of the common room. She checked the Map beneath her Cloak: her way was clear until the fourth floor, where Peeves was no doubt pulling up the carpets or setting an urn ready to upturn on the first person who made their way to breakfast in the morning, so she planned her way through use of the hidden passages and set off on her way through the castle.

The grounds were very dark, and the grass was already frosted: the night was clear and very cold, the stars burning unusually bright. Amber light shone from the lights in Hagrid's cabin and Harriet hurried her way over, knocking quietly on the door: Fang barked within and Hagrid opened the door.

"Yeh there, Harrie'?" he asked.

"Yeah," Harriet breathed, slipping into the cabin, revealing her head and hand; she scratched Fang's nose and made him growl contentedly, his dark, moist eyes lolling lazily. "What've you asked me here for? Not like you to ask me out of the castle after hours…"

"Got summat ter show yeh," Hagrid said: There was an air of enormous excitement about Hagrid, the kind Harriet had only ever seen when he had been expecting the hatching of the baby dragon, Norberta. He was wearing a flower that resembled an oversized artichoke in his buttonhole, and Harriet could see the broken teeth of a comb tangled in his hair where Hagrid had attempted to tame it.

"What're you showing me?" Harriet asked warily, hoping against hope that the Skrewts hadn't laid eggs, or that he'd found a lady-love for Fluffy, the giant three-headed dog.

"Come with me, keep quiet an' keep yerself covered with that Cloak," Hagrid said in a low voice. "We won' take Fang, he won' like it…"

"Er…right," Harriet said, glancing at Fang. It was widely-known amongst the students that, like Hagrid, Fang looked far more fearsome than he actually was, and he was actually a bit of a coward. But if Hagrid didn't want Fang to see whatever it was Hagrid was going to show Harriet, she still didn't think there were many oversize boarhounds who _would_ like it.

But Hagrid had already opened the cabin door and had strode off into the night; Harriet closed the door behind her, keeping Fang whining gently inside the cabin, and hurried after Hagrid. To her great surprise, she found that Hagrid had led her to the Beauxbatons carriage. Did he want to show her Madame Maxime, or the winged Abraxans? Well, he'd asked Madame Maxime to let his Care of Magical Creatures classes go and do studies of them (after Hagrid's sixth-year class had collectively gone to the hospital wing with burns and he was recommended to let the Skrewts have some time to themselves) and if he wanted Harriet to see Madame Maxime…well, she wasn't exactly difficult to _miss_, was she?

"Bong-sewer," Hagrid was bowing, as the wand-emblazoned door of Madame Maxime's carriage opened and she appeared, her massive shoulders draped with a delicate silk shawl

"Ah, 'Agrid…it is time?" she purred, smiling. Hagrid offered his hand to help her down the golden steps and offered his arm, and they set off around the edge of the Abraxans' paddock, Harriet running as quietly as she could to keep up with their enormous strides. She had absolutely no idea what Hagrid was playing at, and, it appeared, neither did Madame Maxime.

"Wair is it you are taking me, 'Agrid?" she asked playfully. Harriet fought the urge not to retch: She had never been third-wheel to a real _couple_ and this was by far the most awkward experience of her life…well…one of them. _But if they end up having babies, I am _not_ baby-sitting! Any baby of theirs will be the same size as me!_ The vision of a baby with Hagrid's thick hair and beard and Madame Maxime's nose and eyelashes popped into her head and she had to bite her lip to prevent herself from laughing.

"Yeh'll enjoy this," Hagrid said gruffly, his tone excited. "Worth seein', trust me. On'y—don' go tellin' anyone I showed yeh, right? Yeh're not s'posed ter know."

"Of course not," Madame Maxime purred, fluttering her long black eyelashes. And they walked on, walking so far around the perimeter of the Forbidden Forest that the lake and the castle were out of sight, Harriet heard something.

Men, shouting, their voices growing louder as they walked…then a deafening, ear-splitting _roar_… Harriet followed the pair around a clump of trees and came to a halt; she had to catch herself before she ran into Madame Maxime's satin-clad legs. For a split-second, she thought she was seeing bonfires, and men dancing around them. Then she blinked, her contacts slid back into place properly, and her mouth fell open, everything seized up with fear and she forgot how to breathe.

_Dragons._

Four enormous, fully-grown, vicious-looking _dragons_ were rearing on their hind legs inside an enclosure fenced with thick planks of wood, roaring and snorting, sending great torrents of fire shooting into the dark sky from their open, viciously-fanged mouths, fifty feet above the ground on their outstretched necks. Four—a silvery-blue one with long, pointed horns, a smooth-scaled green one, which was writhing and stamping with all its might, a red one with an odd fringe of fine gold spikes around its face, which was shooting mushroom-shaped fire clouds into the air, and a gigantic black one, the most monstrous of them all, more lizard-like and cat-eyed, its amber eyes bulging with fear or rage, making a horrible noise, a yowling, screeching scream…

"Keep back there, Hagrid!" one of the wizards, nearest the fence, called, straining on the chain he was holding, his muscles bulging beneath his robes. "They can shoot fire at a range of twenty feet, you know! I've seen this Horntail do forty!"

"Isn' it _beautiful_?" Hagrid sighed softly.

"It's no good," yelled another wizard, "Stunning Spells, on the count of three!" Each of the dragon-keepers took out their wands and pointed them at the dragons, six or seven each to a dragon: "_Stupefy_!" the shouted in unison, and the Stunners shot into the darkness like fiery rockets, bursting in showers of stars on the dragons' hides.

Frozen, Harriet gaped, filled with complete and utter dread, as the dragon nearest them teetered dangerously on its hind legs, its jaws stretched wide in a soundless shriek, its nostrils devoid of flame but smoking, then slowly, very slowly, it fell, several tons of sinewy, scaly _dragon_ hit the ground with a thud that made Harriet jump about three feet in the air. The dragon-keepers lowered their wands but kept them out as they neared their fallen charges, each of which was the size of a small hill, hurrying to tighten thick chains attached to leather collars and straps around their legs and fasten them securely to iron pegs, forced deep into the ground.

"Wan' a closer look?" Hagrid asked Madame Maxime excitedly. They moved right up to the fence; Harriet didn't quite trust her knees, which had suddenly turned to gummy worms, and tottered forward, gripping the fence beside Hagrid.

She realised who the closest wizard was, the one who had called out to Hagrid—Charlie Weasley. _So that's why he said he'd be seeing us_, Harriet thought, gulping; she couldn't _blink_! She stared at the dragons. _Dragons_.

"Alright, Hagrid?" Charlie panted, coming over to talk. "They should be okay now—we put them out with a Sleeping Draught on the way here, thought it might be better for them to wake up in the dark and the quiet—but, like you saw, they weren't happy, not happy at all—"

"What breeds you got here, Charlie?" Hagrid asked, gazing at the closest dragon—the black lizard-like one—with something just short of reverence.

"This one, the black, it's a Hungarian Horntail," Charlie panted, draping his arms over the fence; Harriet had to retreat a few paces, worried he might hear her breathing. The area was suddenly _very_ quiet without the dragons adding to the din of men shouting orders and directions. "There's a Common Welsh Green over there, the smaller one—a Swedish Short-Snout, the silvery-blue, and the red one's a Chinese Fireball." Charlie glanced over to where Madame Maxime was, strolling around the enclosure, her black eyes transfixed on the dragons. "I didn't know you were bringing her, Hagrid. The champions aren't supposed to know what's coming—she's bound to tell her student, isn't she?"

"Jus' thought she'd like ter see 'em," Hagrid shrugged, still gazing covetously at the dragons.

"Really romantic date, Hagrid," Charlie said dryly, rolling his eyes.

"Four," Hagrid said, his glittering eyes flicking over each of the dragons in turn. "So it's one fer each o' the champions, is it? What've they gotta do—fight 'em?"

"Just get past them, I think," Charlie said. "We'll be on hand if it gets nasty, Extinguishing Spells at the ready. They wanted nesting mothers, don't ask me why! But I tell you this—I don't envy the one who gets the Horntail. Vicious bloody creature she is. Her rear-end's as dangerous as her front, look!" Charlie pointed towards the Horntail's tail, and just as the name stated, bronze-coloured spikes protruded from it every few inches. As Harriet watched, five of the keepers tending to the Horntail staggered over to it, carrying a clutch of granite-grey eggs in a large blanket between them. They placed them carefully at the Horntail's side: Hagrid moaned longingly.

"I've got them counted, Hagrid," Charlie said sternly, watching the other keepers deposit eggs to the other dragons. Then he heaved a great sigh and turned back to Hagrid, and he suddenly looked very anxious. "Hagrid—_HAGRID_!" he had to raise his voice, Hagrid too entranced by the slumbering dragons to register him: Hagrid glanced down. "How's Harriet?"

Perhaps Hagrid had forgotten Harriet was there, as he looked very worried. "Bin havin' a rough time of it—all the other student think she's put her name in fer this 'erself! Come cryin' to me in me cabin a few times, and it don' help, Rhona not speaking ter her."

"What?" Charlie snapped, looking very angry. "Rhona's not talking to her?"

"Thinks Harrie' put 'er name in, an' all," Hagrid sighed, still gazing at the dragons, and Madame Maxime, who was directly opposite, staring amorously at the Chinese Fireball.

"Mum never mentioned that! She said Rhona hadn't mentioned Harriet in her letters," Charlie said, growling now as dangerously as the dragons he tended. Harriet didn't know whether she wanted to look at Charlie's expression or at the dragons; both were scary. "Mum's having kittens about Harriet, she hasn't had any letters from her in a while," Charlie said, and imitated his mother's anxious voice: "'_How _could_ they have let her enter that Tournament, she's far too young! I thought they were all safe, I thought there was going to be an age-limit! Dumbledore should have _known_ what those girls are like, what they've got up to in the past—now he's encouraging more students to try and risk their necks_?' Bill and I didn't dare tell her what Harriet's up against in the first task—she was in floods after Rita Skeeter's article, no matter what we told her that Harriet was a lot stronger than Skeeter let on—'_She still cries about her parents! Oh, bless her, I never knew! How could I have not known! Oh, that poor little girl, she's all alone and I never knew she craved her mother'_."

Harriet shrank. So Mrs Weasley had noticed Harriet hadn't been sending her usual fortnightly letters. And she was near-hysterical about Harriet being in the Tournament…Well, at least her mother was frantic for Harriet's survival, even if _Rhona_ wasn't.

"Yer mum comin' up ter watch?" Hagrid asked.

"'Course she is—got to mother Harriet, hasn't she," Charlie said, shaking her head and sighing heavily. "Bill's said he'll spike her tea with sedative before he brings her up, though, just in case she sees what Harriet's up and has a fit and tries to scalp the judges for making her compete!"

"Ar, she's faced stuff like this before, ain't she, Harrie'," Hagrid said. "Firs' Fluffy, me three-headed dog, then tha' Basilisk what was Petrifyin' all them Muggle-borns!"

"I tried telling Mum that, she wouldn't have it!" Charlie said, pushing his fingers through his hair. "She's frantic! I just hope Harriet gets the Welsh Green—who's that?"

"Wha'?" Harriet glanced over her shoulder and saw someone very tall and thin with shimmering silvery furs darting into the trees to avoid detection. Hagrid glanced over his shoulder but was too slow: Charlie frowned. Harriet remembered who the fine, silvery fur cloak had belonged to: Karkaroff. So now she, Madame Maxime and Karkaroff knew about the dragons. Undoubtedly, as Charlie had mentioned warningly, they would both be running off to tell Florent Delacour and Viktoria Krum the moment they could.

"How's Romania, Charlie? Wha' breeds do yeh study there?" Hagrid asked, turning back to Charlie, who was still frowning at the place where Harriet had seen the silvery cloak. The conversation between the two filtered into Charlie's work with the dragons, about Norberta, and Harriet thought it was safe, what with four dragons and Madame Maxime to keep him company, to leave Hagrid. She wished she could've said hello to Charlie, asked him _How in the name of all that is holy am I supposed to GET PAST A BLINKING DRAGON?_

Once she had tiptoed past where Karkaroff was hiding, staring at the dragons inscrutably and listening eagerly to all he could hear Hagrid and Charlie discussing, though it wasn't much besides the terrain of the Romanian dragon sanctuary and the dragons they bred there, she broke into a run, back around the forest, back up the lawn, through the Entrance Hall, through the quickest hidden passages back to the common room, the Map tucked, blank, in her back pocket, she burst into the common room twenty minutes after leaving the dragon enclosure to find an empty room; even the Durmstrang lot had gone to bed.

She glanced wildly around the room—her attention was caught by the badges the Creevey brothers had obtained, and they must have waylaid Hermes at some point, for the badges now read _**Harriet is our Heroine**_, in bright, burning gold against a glittering garnet-red—she pressed it, and the badge shimmered gold and the message changed, vibrant ruby-red against a gold background;

_People Who_

_Wear These_

_Badges Have_

_True_

_Potter Pride_

There were several large round ones that said VIKTORIA VICTORIOUS, too. Padfoot came pelting down the girls' staircase and took a great leaping jump, morphing into a man as he came to an abrupt halt in front of her.

"Hermes told me Hagrid wanted you to meet him," he said, leading her to the sofa by the wrist. He scanned her face anxiously. "What's wrong?"

"Dr—He—There's—I—!"

"Harriet, _what_ _is it_?"

"_DRAGONS_!" she burst, making him jump: She stared, wide-eyed at her godfather.

"Dragons?" Sirius frowned, not cottoning on.

"Hagrid—just took me—see—them! Four dragons—one each—first task—get _past_—Charlie Weasley—said Horntail bad—_big_…" Harriet panted, hyperventilating. Sirius slapped her. "_Ow_!"

"Dragons—the first task is dragons?" Sirius repeated calmly, though urgently.

"Teeth, tail, talons!" Harriet panted, staring. "_Fire_!"

"Harriet, calm down, please calm down," Sirius said consolingly, a hand rested on her shoulder with persistent, comforting weight. "Dragons we can deal with."

"_How_?" she whimpered desperately. Sirius smiled. "I can't _Stun_ it!"

"No, no, dragons are far too strong and magically powerful to be knocked out by a single Stunner—you need about a half-dozen trained wizards at a time to overcome a dragon—"

"Yeah, I know, I just saw!" Harriet squeaked.

"But you _can _do it alone," Sirius said comfortingly. "There is a way, and a simple spell's all you need. Just have Hermes teach you how to perform a Conjunctivitis Curse."

"Conjunctivitis?" Harriet gaped. She'd just _had_ conjunctivitis, she'd spent a week in hospital! But she hadn't even needed to stay there, conjunctivitis was hardly a deadly illness, enough to render a fifty-foot, several-ton, fire-breathing _dragon_ incapable of doing anything to _kill_ _her_!

"The dragons' eyes are their weakest point," Sirius said gently. Harriet stared. "You just have to practice on your aim, and you have to have a bit of power behind the curse, otherwise it'll just be like a poke in the eyes to them, and they'll get angry."

"Oh, well that's alright then!" Harriet squeaked. Sirius took her face in his hands and pressed his forehead to hers.

"Please calm down," he said gently. "You've done things like this before—you killed a twenty-foot _Basilisk_. You have been in this kind of jeopardy before, and you will defeat it again."

"But, Sirius, it's a—"

Her heart pounding in her throat, Harriet glanced at the stairwell; she heard someone slipping down the spiral staircase. She glanced back at Sirius and found him in dog-form again. She glanced back at the staircase, wondering who in the world would be wandering about at one o'clock in the morning.

It was Rhona. Dressed in her purple paisley pyjamas and her too-short _Chudley_ _Cannons_ dressing gown, Rhona stopped dead when she faced Harriet, and looked around.

"Who were you talking to?" she asked; Padfoot had slinked off behind the sofa.

"What's that got to do with you?" Harriet snarled. "What are you doing down here at this time of night?"

"I just wondered where you—" Rhona broke off, her expression hardening. "Nothing. I'm going back to bed."

"Just thought you'd come nosing around, did you?" Harriet shouted: She was on her feet, fists clenched. She knew that Rhona had no idea what she'd stumbled in on, knew she would probably remember that _Sirius_ was still Harriet's faithful companion, she knew Rhona had let slip she was worried where Harriet was, but right at the moment Harriet hated every inch of her, right down to the five inches of bare ankle showing below the hem of her pyjama trousers.

"Sorry about that," Rhona said tartly, her ears reddening angrily. "I should've realised you didn't want to be disturbed, practicing for your next interview."

Harriet seized one of the badges the Creeveys had stuck onto _POTTER REALLY STINKS _when they'd tried to bewitch them before Harriet had suggested Hermes' help, and hurled it as hard as she could across the room.

It smacked Rhona right in the face, and she clapped a hand over her forehead, where blood had blossomed because either the edge or the clasp of the pin had caught her.

"There you go," Harriet said passionately, every inch of her surging with boiling hatred. It was all very well, Rhona standing there, sniping at her, but on Tuesday afternoon, she'd think twice about having abandoned their friendship when Hogwarts mourned the death of the youngest champion, the death they'd anticipated all the time. "Something for you to wear on Tuesday. Might even get a scar, if you're lucky—that's what you want, isn't it?"

Striding across the room towards the stairs, she half-expected, half-wanted Rhona to stop her, to smack her or hex her, but Rhona just stood there, in her too-small pyjamas, holding her head, the badge in her hand where she'd picked it up, and Harriet, having stormed up to bed, lay awake in bed fuming for a long time afterwards, and didn't hear her come back to up to bed.

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**A.N.**: I'm so sorry again for taking such a long time to update—things are manic at the moment—first fortnight at university! Truth is I haven't actually been _on_ the computer enough, I get in about 4 a.m. most mornings, so my days are spent pretty much sleeping!

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	55. Fair Play, Flying and Family

**A.N.**: Okay, I have to give enormous apologies for not updating in over a month: although they claim university is all about getting your degree so you can have a great career etc, those living the experience know it's all about the two b's: Booze and boys! I'm currently on the verge of death after having way too many Kryptonite drinks (ironic, huh!) so I thought seeing as I'm not going to be doing much in the immediate future by way of partying, that I'd get down to some writing: However, I'm not really in the right mood to write, so I thought I'd compensate by uploading this chapter!

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**Fair-Play****, Flying and Family**

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Harriet awoke on Sunday morning and dressed so inattentively that it took her a while to realise she was trying to pull her beret-style black hat onto her foot instead of a sock. When she'd finally put all the right pieces on the right places—she checked the mirror three times before leaving the dormitory—she hurried off to find Hermes, armed with her wand and the spellbook Sirius must've set out on her bedside cabinet last night from the communal bookcase downstairs, full of outdated or unwanted texts.

"Are you alright?" Hermes asked, his eyes widening as she drifted, zombie-like, into the Great Hall, stark-white and feeling decidedly queasy. Harriet waited for him to finish the last of his porridge and bid goodbye to Seamus (who had been spending a lot of time with him because Dean was still latched onto Rhona like she was a life-support machine) and then ran him out of the castle, around the lake. As they walked, she told him about everything that happened from the moment she met Hagrid at his cabin to throwing the badge at Rhona.

"That was you?" Hermes breathed.

"Yes," Harriet snapped, glowering dangerously at him, daring him to comment that she had '_really hurt her_' or something of that sort.

"Oh, Harriet!" Hermes sighed, shaking his head. "What did you do that for? It'll just push her further away! She had to go to Madam Pomfrey this morning for dittany."

"Oh, so she _doesn't_ want a scar on her forehead—funny, _you_ told me she _did_," Harriet said sourly.

"I wish you two had sorted this out already," he sighed, patient as ever; he had become accustomed to the girls' mood-swings and even had them himself. "You're both too stubborn—but _you're_ too slow-burning."

"Whaddaya mean?"

"Rhona always flies off the handle when she's angry, like Mrs Weasley, and I always know what to expect when she's pissed off," Hermes said, as they walked around the Abraxans' paddock now; Harriet kept glancing past the trees, where she'd walked around for fifteen minutes before finding the dragons. "But _you_, you simmer along for a long time, nobody ever knows when you're going to blow up, or how big the explosion's going to be… But enough about that. The Conjunctivitis Curse."

"Yeah…Sirius got this from the common room," Harriet said, showing Hermes the book she'd found on her cabinet. "I've read the bit about Conjunctivitis Curses—they're _N.E.W.T._-level," Harriet moaned. Hermes flicked through the book quickly as Harriet hung her head in her hands, miserable. "And if I can even do the Curse, how on earth am I supposed to tell whether it's worked—because I am _not_ giving you conjunctivitis, Hermes."

"Oh, thanks," Hermes smiled. "I was hoping you'd say that—I saw you when _you_ had it."

"Oh, thanks, you're making me feel _loads_ better about Cedric having visited me that week," Harriet said, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring. Hermes found the appropriate page and scanned it quickly.

"You can do this, Harriet," he said carefully. "You'll need to put a bit of study into the theory today, tomorrow we can start on the practical side—I'll ask Professor McGonagall about a victim."

"How about _Rhona_," Harriet growled, as they made their way back to the school. Hermes pointedly ignored her comment, meanwhile Harriet envisioned Rhona howling in pain and clawing her eyes out with her fingernails. Hermes led the way to the library and pulled down every book he could think of that would have the Conjunctivitis Curse theory in it, and they sat down at a large round table with the lamps lit, as it was a dreary day, and Harriet attempted to apply herself to the many heavy tomes Hermes had found. All the while, Hermes kept up a constant stream of what he probably thought were confidence-boosting whispers.

"Hermes, will you _shut up, please_," Harriet pleaded desperately. "I'm trying to concentrate." Hermes jumped, as if he hadn't realised he had been talking at all. But when Hermes fell silent, all that happened was Harriet's head filled with loud, indiscriminate roar. This did not allow room for concentration, and Harriet just ended up sitting for forty-five minutes on end staring at the same page in her book, playing her death by dragon-horns over and over and over and over and over again…

"Oh, _no_, she's back _again_," Hermes moaned and sighed heavily, his expression turning very irritable indeed: Harriet managed to pull her wide, dazed eyes off the print and sought out Viktoria Krum, who cast them one small frown and waved slightly to Harriet before slouching off to a small table with a pile of books…was she, too, using the time before the first task to load up on anything she could that could help her get past a dragon? "Why can't she go and read in the common-room, at least everyone's used to her there now!

"Come on," Hermes scowled, slamming his books into a pile, forgetting some purposefully as they had already read through them, "we'll go back to the common room…her fan club will be here in a minute…donuts…"

As they left the library, a gang of boys and girls tiptoed past them, one of the girls wearing a Bulgaria scarf tied around her waist. They spent the rest of the day in an unused classroom, Harriet trying to curse the board-erasers and the wastepaper basket. But it didn't work; she hit the target, but as she couldn't see whether or not the result was effective, she had very little confidence, so little that as time wore on and she kept trying to perform the curse, she developed the same kind of block against it as she had on Summoning Charms.

* * *

When Harriet awoke on Monday morning, she considered, for the first time, just running away from Hogwarts. At least then she wouldn't have to face the dragon. But as she made her way down to the Great Hall, taking the time to actually _look_ at the thousands of magnificent portraits and landscapes, maps, tapestries, statues, suits of armour that she had never really _noticed_ before because they were part of the same scene she witnessed every day, and entered the Great Hall to the thousand chattering students, owls fluttering down and delivering post, the bewitched ceiling displaying a cloudless grey sky, she knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't leave Hogwarts—it was her _home_. This was one of the two places she had ever been happy (the other was the Burrow)—she knew she had been blissful with her parents, but Hogwarts was her home.

Somehow, the knowledge that she would rather stay at Hogwarts and face a dragon than go back to Privet Drive with Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, Daisy and occasionally Aunt Marge, was very comforting. She managed to keep all her porridge down (she had not actually been able to eat anything for several meals) though her stomach did feel horrible, and as she and Hermes got up for Herbology, their first lesson of a Monday morning, she spotted Cedric and his entourage of friends and simpering admirers leaving the Hufflepuff table.

Cedric still didn't know about the dragons…the only champion who didn't, if what she thought about Karkaroff, and Charlie's suspicions about Madame Maxime were correct… "I'll see you at Herbology."

"The bells about to ring, you'll be late—_Harriet_!"

"_I'll see you at Herbology_," she shouted over her shoulder, pelting down the Hall. By the time she reached the foot of the marble staircase, Cedric was already at the top with his entourage, which included those who took to ripping her to shreds through use of Rita Skeeter quotes at every opportunity. Though Cedric always flushed whenever anyone was unkind to her directly in front of him, she disliked how he still hung out with them—and how he made no effort to ask them not to wear those effing badges.

She followed him at a distance, wondering how she could get him alone without all the sixth-years noticing, and as he neared the Charms corridor she got an idea: Narrowing her eyes and aiming, she murmured, "_Diffindo_!" The seam of Cedric's bag split at the bottom; parchment, quills and books spilt out, and several bottles of ink smashed.

"Don't bother!" Cedric said exasperatedly, as several of the girls dropped, so slowly Harriet thought they might've been Stunned, to pick up his things. "Tell Flitwick I'm coming, go on…" Harriet grinned, then checked it: as Cedric's friends made their way towards their Charms classroom, Harriet approached Cedric; several of his friends glanced over their shoulders—

"Like the badges, Potter?" they shot at her snidely; she ignored them, as had become her custom now.

"Hi," Cedric said, as she squatted down to siphon ink off one of his textbooks; Hermes had taught her, as she tended to had been so nervous about the dragon that last night she blotted all of her homework assignments atrociously. Cedric picked up a copy of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_ that she had just cleaned, with a slight smile. "My bag just split…brand new and all…"

"Cedric," Harriet said slowly, glancing at Cedric as he frowned over his ruined assignments. "The first task's dragons."

Cedric looked up very quickly, dropping the repaired, refilled bottle of ink so that it smashed again. "What?"

"Dragons," Harriet said, speaking quickly, in case Professor Flitwick came out to see where Cedric had got to, or sent another student. "They've got four, one for each of us."

"Are you serious?" Cedric asked, going slightly white. She saw the barely-subdued panic she'd been battling since Saturday night flickering in his lovely-lashed grey eyes.

"As death," Harriet said darkly. "I've seen them."

"But how did you find out? We're not supposed to know…"

"Doesn't matter how I know—Viktoria and Delacour will know by now too," Harriet said quickly, hoping he didn't ask her again how she'd seen them—she knew Hagrid would get in a lot of trouble, and she didn't think she could lie to Cedric again. "Karkaroff and Madame Maxime both saw the dragons, too."

Cedric frowned for a second, then glanced around the corridor. "Why are you telling me?" he asked suspiciously. Harriet blanched, taken aback. He still had not forgiven her for being entered in the Tournament; this was the first time she'd been in the same quarter of the castle as him at any given time—he was always surrounded by people and Harriet had been doing her best to avoid them. People who wore _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY _badges—her anger flared up, and she hissed—

"Whether or not you still think of me the same way, I'm still _your_ friend," she snarled. "Friends tell each other things—they tell each other when they're about to walk blind into a task that _could_ kill them. So I'm telling you the first task's dragons, and you'd better have something ready to try and _get_ _past yours_." She whirled around to leave but Cedric caught her wrist. He was biting his lip, looking troubled.

"I thought you didn't want to be friends any more…after the Goblet," he mumbled.

"_You_ were the one who thought I was a cheat and a liar," Harriet said tartly. Cedric nodded, his cheeks flushing.

"I did… I'm sorry… I should've remembered a long time ago I already knew you weren't a cheat—or a liar," he apologised shamefacedly. "I guess…I got upset that you were competing too."

"You have an ego, it's true," Harriet sighed, crossing her arms over her chest as they stood, Cedric's repaired back repacked haphazardly. "That's fine—I'll beat it out of you eventually." Cedric's mouth twitched and he allowed himself to smile.

"Hey Ced!" someone called down the corridor; one of his Hufflepuff friends was hanging out of the door of the Charms classroom. Cedric waved, even as the boy sneered at Harriet and flashed his badge at her.

"Oh—about the badges," Cedric said, his cheeks flushing red again, looking angry and embarrassed, "I've asked them not to wear them… So…dragons."

"One for each of us," Harriet nodded: Cedric didn't seem to want to believe it. "We have to get past one." An uneven clunking echoed in the corridor, and she froze.

"Come with me, Potter," Mad-Eye Moody growled. "Diggory, off you go." Harriet glanced guiltily at Moody; had he heard her telling Cedric?

"Er—Professor, I'm supposed to be in Herbology—"

"Never mind that, Potter. In my office, please…" Filled with dread and apprehension, Harriet followed Moody's mismatched feet back to the office from whence he had come: Harriet had been in this office under two previous occupants: In Gilda Lockhart's time, the walls had been plastered with photographs of Lockhart herself. In Remus's time, there had been bookcases filled with battered, second-hand books and tanks of some fascinating Dark creature he had procured for their class to study. Now, it was filled with a number of exceptionally odd objects that Harriet supposed Moody had used during his lengthy career as a Ministry Auror. He caught her staring avidly around at the _things_—there was a squiggly golden aerial, a Sneakoskope (Rhona had once bought her a miniature one that had detected Peter Pettigrew hiding as Rhona's pet-rat) and a mirror reflected, not the room and herself, but shadowy figures somewhere in the distance, none of them in focus.

"Like my Dark detectors, do you?" Moody asked; he'd sat down at his desk and was resting his mismatched legs on a low cot.

"What's that?" Harriet asked interestedly, pointing to the extra-squiggly golden aerial.

"Secrecy Sensor. Vibrates when it detects concealment and lies…no use here, of course, too much interference—kids in every direction lying about why they haven't done their homework! Been humming ever since I got here. I had to disable my Sneakoskope because it wouldn't stop whistling! It's extra-sensitive, picks up stuff about a mile around. Of course, it could be picking up more than kids' stuff," he added, growling.

"I reckon I should invest in some of these," Harriet said, glancing at the mirror. "What's the mirror for?"

"It's a Foe-Glass. See them out there, skulking around? I'm not really in trouble until I can see the whites of their eyes—that's when I open my trunk." He laughed harshly and pointed to a large trunk under the window; it had seven heavy keyholes in a row, and Harriet wondered what he kept in there, until Moody's next sentence brought her back to earth with a bone-shattering crash.

"That was a very noble thing you did back there, Potter," he growled. That took Harriet completely by surprise. "It's alright," Moody chuckled. "Cheating's a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and always has been."

"I wasn't cheating!" Harriet said indignantly. "It was a sort of…_accident_ that I found out about the dragons."

"Relax—I wasn't accusing you, lass," Moody growled less-threateningly than normal. "I've been telling Dumbledore from the beginning, he can be as high-minded as he wants, but you can bet old Karkaroff and Maxime _won't be_. They'll have told their champions everything they can. They want to win. They want to beat Dumbledore—prove he's only human!" Moody gave a harsh laugh and his magical eye swivelled around.

"So…what are you going to do about your dragon?" Moody asked. "Have you got a plan?"

"Um…" She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing; she had a plan, she just didn't see how it was going to work before noon tomorrow. "Well…I thought about a Conjunctivitis Curse…but I can't do it."

"Mm," Moody growled, narrowing his normal eye, his other one whizzing around sickeningly. "Well, I'm not going to tell you what to do—that's a good idea. But if you want some advice, I'd tell you to _play to your strengths_."

"I haven't got any," Harriet said dejectedly, before she could stop herself, collapsing disconsolately in her chair with her shoulders slumped. Moody's normal eye narrowed to a slit, and he kicked out a chair for her.

"Sit. Now—you've got strengths if I say you've got them, Potter. Think now. What are you best at?"

"Well that's easy—Quidditch," Harriet said. She didn't mean to sound arrogant, but Moody seemed to like that answer; his crooked gash of a mouth even more lopsided as he grinned.

"That's right," he said, staring at her very hard; his magical eye hardly moved at all. "You're a damn good flier, from what I've heard."

"Yeah, but I'm not allowed a broom," Harriet said quietly. "I'm only allowed a wand, and it looks more like a splinter compared to a _fifty-foot dragon_." She held up her wand, staring at it with wide eyes, wondering how it was going to hold up against a _dragon_!

"Size doesn't always guarantee power," Moody said carefully, eye narrowed at her again. "Don't underestimate your wand, or your own capabilities when armed with one, Potter. My second piece of advice is to use a nice, simple spell which will enable you _to get what you need_… Come _on_, lass…put them together…it's not that difficult."

With a loud gasp, it clicked. She was best at flying, better than anyone. She needed to pass the dragon in the air, and to get _into_ and _stay_ _in_ the air, she needed a broom, and to get a broom she needed—

* * *

"Hermes!" she panted, five minutes later, holding a stitch in her side, having bolted down from Moody's office to Greenhouse 3, blurting a hurried apology to Professor Sprout, who was still being decidedly cool towards her. "I need your help."

"What do you think I've been trying to do?" Hermes hissed at her over the top of his quivering Flutterby Bush he was pruning.

"Hermes—I need you to teach me how to perform a Summoning Charm by tomorrow afternoon, a really _good_ one."

So it began: They didn't have lunch, but headed for a free classroom, Harriet calling on Dobby for sandwiches from the kitchens while she tried with all her might to make objects fly across the room to her. She was still having problems: The books and quills kept losing heart halfway across the room and dropping like stones to the floor.

"Concentrate, Harriet, please, _concentrate_…" Hermes groaned, as yet again a heavy tome slammed to the floor, the spine cracking.

"What d'you think I'm _trying_ to do?" Harriet glowered. "A filthy great _dragon_ keeps popping up in my head, for some reason—can't think why… Okay, I'll try again…"

She wanted to skip Divination to keep practicing, but Hermes refused to ditch Arithmancy, and there was no point staying behind on her own. So she had to endure over two hours with Professor Trelawney, who spent half the time telling everyone that the position of Mars in relation to Saturn at the present moment meant that people born in July were in great danger of sudden, violent deaths.

"Well, that's good," Harriet found herself shouting, because it wasn't funny anymore; everyone who had started giggling stopped. "Just as long as it's not drawn out, I don't want to suffer, just one big swallow—"

Rhona caught her eye for the first time in days, but Harriet was too resentful towards her, and too irate towards Professor Trelawney to care. She spent the rest of the lesson trying to attract small objects towards her under the table with her wand. Norah was very concerned about her, and kept shooting her anxious glances across their shared table, but Harriet was too angry and _scared_ to be very communicative with anyone.

She couldn't eat dinner, watched Hermes wolf down the chicken, ham, mushroom and leek pie that was her favourite and which she always anticipated with great relish, and returned to the empty classroom with Hermes, using the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map to avoid everyone. They kept practicing until midnight—by which time Peeves had arrived and, pretending to think Harriet wanted things thrown at her, started chucking chairs across the room and pelting them with chalk, creating such a ruckus they feared Filch would show up. The common room was mercifully empty: Sirius morphed back into a man and helped them until two o'clock in the morning, by which time Harriet stood surrounded by a small mountain of things—books, quills, several upturned chairs, an old set of Gobstones, Norah's toad, a heavy cabinet, a cauldron, scales, cloaks and an odd glove. Only in the last hour with Sirius's unrelenting enthusiasm and confidence in her abilities had she managed to get the hang of the Summoning Charm: Hermes had been forced to go to bed by Sirius.

"That's excellent, Harriet, really excellent," Sirius beamed tiredly.

"Well, now we know what to do the next time I can't manage a spell," Harriet said, her eyes aching for sleep, throwing a Rune dictionary back to Sirius, so she cold try again. "Threaten me with a dragon. Right…" She frowned, her tongue poked between her lips in concentration: "_Accio Dictionary!_" The book soared out of Sirius's hand, flew across the room and Harriet caught it.

"Harriet, you've really got it now!" Sirius said delightedly, smiling. He looked as tired as she felt, with the resurgence of shadows under his eyes that hadn't been there for weeks.

"Just as long as it works tomorrow," Harriet yawned.

"_You'd_ better be going up to bed, or you won't be up to _anything_, let alone tackling a dragon," Sirius said quietly. "No—I'm confident you'll do well, Harriet—this way's loads better than the Conjunctivitis Curse—that might turn out nasty if the dragon attacks blindly…"

"The _Firebolt_'s going to be a lot further away than the stuff in here, though," Harriet said quietly, glancing around. "It's going to be in the castle, and I'm going to be out there in the grounds…"

"Doesn't matter," Sirius croaked tiredly. "As long as you can see the _Firebolt_ clearly in your mind's eye, and you concentrate really hard, it'll come to you. Harriet—I really think you should get to bed," Sirius chuckled, seeing Harriet yawn widely again, temporarily paralysed by it. She schlumped across the common room and collapsed into his arms for a hug, and he stroked her hair and kissed her head before wrapping his arms tight around her. Was he, too, thinking that this time tomorrow Harriet might not be there to hug again? Did he envision, as she did, a charred, bandaged figure tucked under the blankets in the hospital wing, or a dismembered torso screaming in pain? She hugged Sirius tight; after everything he'd gone through for her, she didn't want to put him through anything more strenuous than making sure her first boyfriend was good to her. She slipped upstairs, half-dead, and went into a dead sleep as soon as she settled under her duvet, Padfoot curled up on her feet.

* * *

Harriet had been so focused, first on the Conjunctivitis Curse and then the Summoning Charm that she had completely forgotten to panic. But it returned sevenfold the next morning: The atmosphere in the school was one of great tension and excitement—the atmosphere of a Cup-deciding Quidditch match between bitter rivals, doubled.

Lessons were to stop at midday: Harriet didn't know where the morning had gone. She had been sitting in History of Magic, her first lesson, and then she was walking into the Great Hall for lunch. Only, she couldn't eat. She hadn't eaten anything since that sandwich yesterday, but her stomach was filled with so many miniature serpents and toads she might've swallowed peppermint-cream toads from Honeydukes. Professor Dumbledore stood up at the staff table, and the four houses fell silent with anticipation. He smiled at their eager expressions.

"I wish to invite the school champions to join me in the chamber off the Hall, where they will meet with their families, and will join the rest of us down at the stadium," he said, smiling. Florent was running across in no time; Cedric stood up, grinning as if relieved, Viktoria Krum pulled herself to her feet and slouched off to the door off the Hall, all to cheers. Harriet turned and stared at her plate. '_Where they with meet their families_.' Her eyes seared and she set her face, clenching her jaw at her plate.

"Harriet…" Hermes said gently, and she could hear the concerned lilt in his voice, and the hand resting on her shoulder.

"Trust _them_," she said hoarsely, glaring tearfully at her plate. "Only time they're interested in my life, they're coming to watch me get _slaughtered_." Her voice broke at the last word and she dropped her head in her hand.

"Harriet…come on, don't be like that," Hermes said gently, sitting very close; he rubbed her back comfortingly, leaning his chin on her shoulder. "We've spent hours practicing—you can _do this_."

"Harriet?" Dumbledore called, over the noise that had returned once the three champions had disappeared. Harriet frozen, trying to make herself as least-noticeable as possible. "Harriet, please, don't keep them waiting."

"Go on, just go and see who it is," Hermes said gently. "You know the Muggles can't get anywhere near Hogsmeade, even…"

"So who'd be waiting for _me_?" Harriet whimpered softly. She was shivering all over; the realisation of what she was about to do in less than one hour was mounting on her. She wasn't ready for this, she wasn't supposed to be _doing this_? She hadn't signed up for it, she wanted to sit in the stands and cheer with Rhona and Hermes…

"Go on, Harriet, McGonagall looks like she's about to drag you up there," Hermes said gently, rubbing her back one last time. "Go on…"

Padfoot reared up on his hind legs, his front feet on her shoulders as she stood up, and licked her face once, catching her eye, before dropping to all paws and watching her start walking away. Feeling now extremely miserable and ill, like she was going to throw up, Harriet made her way up the Gryffindor table; _**Harriet is our Heroine **_flashed at her from every crimson-clad chest; Gryffindor banners and scarves and flags waved, beaming, painted faces egged her on, grinning excitedly.

"Good luck, Harriet!"

"You'll do great!"

"_Potter for the win_!"

"We'll have the Healers on-hand, Potter!"

"You're not particularly _attached_ to your limbs, are you?"

Harriet cast the teachers a glare for putting her through this humiliation before opening the door off the Hall, and stepped through and down the steps that, twenty-four days ago, she had traipsed down in the same complete and utter shock and bewilderment.

The room was more crowded this time—Cedric's mother stood with him in one corner; they were talking quietly and Mrs Diggory looked at once like she was extremely proud of her boy but didn't know whether she could take the heartbreak of seeing him risk his neck. Mr and Mrs Krum stood in another corner with their daughter; they were all dark-haired, and Viktoria, who was speaking in rapid Bulgarian to her parents, had inherited her father's looks; her mother was very lovely, and when Viktoria smiled, Harriet remembered, she looked a lot more like Mrs Krum.

Florent stood talking in thick, flowing French seemingly without taking breath to a silvery-blonde woman who was as tall as and fairer even than her son: Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as his wife or as Florent—he was a head shorter than both and extremely plump, with a little, pointed black beard, but he looked extremely good-natured, and stood on little high-heeled boots. A little girl, her mother and Florent's miniature, stood holding her father's hand and was peering inquisitively at a scarlet-and-gold-haired witch in a punky studded mini-skirt, heavy boots and a punky _Weird Sisters_ t-shirt, who was talking exuberantly with BillWeasley—Mrs Weasley was almost crying with laughter, and leaning against the fireplace, smiling amiably and chuckling at the story Bill and Nymphadora Tonks was _Remus_.

"Mrs—Remus—you—Bill!" she stammered, tumbling down the last few steps and staggering over. Mrs Weasley turned around, beaming; her expression fell, stunned by Harriet's appearance: she couldn't imagine how she looked like to the most motherly of mothers. Remus left the fireplace, his prematurely lined face etched with worry.

"Harriet," he said gently, smiling tenderly. His eyes sparkled with worry, and he opened his arms to her: she grabbed him round the middle and hugged him, feeling like her knees wouldn't keep up much longer, let alone get her to the dragon enclosure. "How are you?" He held her at arm's length and examined her face as she made a small noise that could have meant anything, even _she_ didn't know. Remus guided her towards her other 'family' members gently with his arm around her shoulders.

"Professor Dumbledore wrote wondering whether we would like to step in as your family for the day," Remus said, smiling affectionately. "I didn't want to say anything in my last letter; I wanted it to be a surprise."

"Harriet, dear," Mrs Weasley said tearfully, throwing herself at Harriet, and Harriet choked as Mrs Weasley grabbed her in a bone-crunching hug worth only of Hagrid, her arm squashed between them.

"Mum. _Mum_! You're strangling her!" Bill laughed good-naturedly, and Harriet felt someone prising Mrs Weasley's off of her.

"Hi short-stack," Bill said, grinning handsomely down at her, leaning down to give her a fierce hug, and to kiss her cheek.

"Are you tryin' to make my brain go all gooey before I even try the task?" Harriet said, making a weak attempt at a joke. She was too petrified about what awaited her that she couldn't even blush. Bill gave her a very sympathetic, amused look, and kissed her cheek again to see if it sparked any reaction.

"Well—Charlie'll be here in a bit," Bill said, "I know _he'll_ get a blush out of you."

"Wotcher, Harriet," said the punky witch, who was grinning from ear to ear.

"Ah, yes, Harriet," Remus smiled, "this is Nymphadora Tonks—"

"_Don't_ call me Nymphadora, Remus," she begged—

"—who prefers to be known by her last name only," Remus finished, giving Tonks a look. "Tonks, this is Harriet." Tonks's grin was _almost_ infectious; had she not felt this shell-shocked, Harriet might have smiled just because Tonks was so exuberant. On her chest flashed a _**Harriet is our Heroine**_ badge and she held a silk Gryffindor flag. She saw Harriet eyeing it.

"I had to borrow it from Fred and George," she laughed, winking. "All my Hogwarts stuff is still at my parents' house."

"Where you a Gryffindor?" Harriet managed to ask quietly.

"No—Hufflepuff," Tonks grinned. "S'pose I should be supporting Pretty-Boy over there, shouldn't I?" She glanced over at Cedric and Mrs Diggory, who Harriet noticed were both talking very fast and very low, and Mrs Diggory kept glancing over at Harriet, looking troubled.

"That's Cedric," Harriet said quietly. Bill's mouth twitched and he exchanged a glance with Remus.

"Easy on the eyes, isn't he," Tonks gushed enthusiastically, grinning over at Cedric, who had just glanced over: Harriet nodded at the floor, hoping it would open and swallow her up.

"Harriet, dear…are you alright?" Mrs Weasley asked, so low none of the others heard her, discussing their time at Hogwarts, what Houses they were in. Harriet glanced up: A strange sense of detachment had settled on her. It was a state of nervousness so advanced that she wondered whether she mightn't just lose her head when they tried to lead her out to her dragon, and pull a Moody and start cursing everyone in sight.

"I'm fine," she said, in a voice _very_ unlike her own.

"Champions!" Professor Dumbledore had arrived, flanked by Karkaroff, Madame Maxime, Mr Crouch and Professor McGonagall. "Welcome, all, thank you for being here today! If we could all make our way down into the grounds, the champions must prepare for the first task." Harriet let out a panicked whimper and hid in Bill's robes. She felt Bill chuckle, her ear pressed to his chest. She glanced up at him, wild-eyed.

"You'll hex me, won't you? You know bad hexes from the tombs that'll render me incapable of _anything_?"

"I'm not going to curse you."

"Where's Charlie?" she whispered, frantic: She felt on the verge of tears. She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to play this game. It had been a long time since she'd faced that Basilisk and it wasn't the same thing, fighting something to save a person's life. "Charlie can do it—his muscles can rip me in two—where's _Hagrid_?"

"_Oh non_!" Madame Delacour whispered, a hand over her lovely mouth. Mrs Krum made to move towards her, wide-eyed. Mrs Diggory's face was a mirror of Mrs Weasley's, of the utmost concern.

"Here," Remus said hoarsely, taking something out of the inside pocket of his shabby but neat robes: it was a small Honeydukes chocolate bar. "Eat it all up, Harriet, you'll feel better." With violently trembling fingers and a tremulous attempt at a smile, though her eyes burned, Harriet took the chocolate bar and unwrapped it tenderly.

* * *

**A.N.**: I figured I owe it to you all to upload a chapter! Please review!

* * *


	56. The First Task

**A.N.**: Okay, so…the first task! Sorry it's taken so long to update—I kind of got to the point where I couldn't write any more, and because I'd just started university, so I had lectures and all that jazz! For you, _Lady Mystiquea_, because of your persistent reviews! Keep 'em coming!

* * *

**The First Task**

* * *

Remus held her hand tenderly as they walked at the back of the column of the champions and their families, a mismatched ensemble, and more than once Harriet stopped, making Mrs Weasley bump into her. The November afternoon was cold and crisp; it seized her lungs. But she finished the chocolate, and was trembling from head to foot as they neared the enclosure—which had now had a tent erected, its entrance facing them, screening the dragons from view: the roar of a thousand spectators would probably be enough to mask the roars of the dragons.

Professor McGonagall strode up to Harriet, and she didn't seem herself; she looked nearly as anxious as Remus, though considerably less than Mrs Weasley. She put a hand on Harriet's shoulder as they neared the enclosure.

"Now, don't panic," she said, "keep a cool head…we've got trained professionals on hand to control the situation if it gets out of hand…the main thing is to do your best, and nobody will think any the worse of you… You're to go in here with the other champions," she continued, in a rather shaky voice, "and wait for your—_turn_. Mr Bagman is already in there…he'll be telling you the—procedure…good luck."

"Good luck, Harriet," Remus whispered, kissing her cheek and fixing her with a very Remus-like look. "I know you'll do spectacularly."

"We're cheering you on, Harriet," Bill grinned, though Harriet thought he looked a little pale. Mrs Weasley was white as marble; the other mothers looked extremely anxious also. Did they already know what their children awaited? In contrast, bright, vivacious Tonks grinned manically, waving her Gryffindor flag, her badge flashing. Harriet followed in the wake of Viktoria, the last to enter the tent, and Harriet went inside on legs that trembled so badly she was surprised she hadn't fallen over.

When Harriet entered the tent, Cedric gave her a very small, strained smile, then clamped his mouth shut, as if afraid he might vomit if he kept it open too long. Harriet felt like that. Remus's chocolate bar hadn't done anything: She'd never had nerves like these. This wasn't a Quidditch match.

Bagman stood wearing his _Wasps_ robes, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his youthful face shining with anticipation.

"Harriet! Good-oh!" he said happily, looking around. "Come in, come in, all of you, make yourselves at home." There were four small cots, each draped with appropriate colours for the champions. "There's robes laid out for you on your cot, I'll wait for you all to change." The curtains fell as they each entered their little cubicles: Harriet barely registered the fine scarlet velvet robes like the ones Dumbledore wore, knee-length with a little pair of matching scarlet leggings and soft black leather boots as she changed out of her uniform. She parted the curtains with numb fingers and re-entered the main room of the tent.

Florent had taken a little wooden stool in a corner, and looked pale and clammy in his silvery-blue robes: Viktoria Krum looked surlier than ever in her blood-red robes… Cedric was pacing up and down in his black robes, with yellow detailing.

"Well, now we're all ready—time to fill you in!" Bagman said brightly. "I'm going to offer each of you this bag," he said, holding up a small sack of purple silk, and shook it at them, "from which you will each select a model of the thing you are about to face! There are different—er—varieties, you see. And I have to tell you something else too…ah, yes…your task is to _collect the golden egg_!" Harriet trembled from head to foot.

"Now, alphabetical order," Bagman said, undoing the neck of the purple bag, and he smiled at Florent. "Monsieur Delacour…"

Florent put a shaking hand into the bag, and drew out a tiny, perfect model of a dragon—a Welsh Green. It had something slung around its neck on a little black ribbon; a golden number two. Cedric put his hand into the bag, and out came the silvery-blue Swedish Short-Snout, the number one tied around its neck. Viktoria put her hand into the bag and pulled out the scarlet Chinese Fireball, the number three draped around its neck.

"And now, Miss Potter," Bagman beamed. Harriet resisted the urge to retch all over him, convulsing as she put her hand into the bag, filled with dread, knowing what was left. She pulled out the reptilian Hungarian Horntail, black, lizard-like. It stretched its wings as she looked down at it; even the model was bigger than her hand was long, and it bared its miniscule fangs and lashed its lethal tail.

"Well, there you are!" Bagman said. "You have each pulled out the dragon you will face, and the numbers refer to the order in which you are to take on the dragons, do you see? Now, I'm going to have to leave you in a moment, because I'm commentating. Mr Diggory, you're first, just go out into the enclosure when you hear a whistle, alright? Now…Harriet…could I have a quick word, outside?" Harriet, mouth dry, nodded, and followed Mr Bagman just a few metres outside the tent.

"Are you feeling alright, Harriet?" Bagman asked, peering down concernedly at her. "Anything I can get you?"

"What?" Harriet breathed, shaking her head. "I—no, nothing, thank you."

"Have you got a plan?" Bagman asked, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Because I don't mind giving you a few pointers—our secret, of course, nobody would have to know. I mean…you're the underdog here, Harriet…anything I can do to help."

_Kill_ _me_. "Um…No thank you, Mr Bagman," she said quietly. "I-I know what I'm going to do."

"Are you sure?" Bagman asked, looking doubtful.

"I'm sure—I've got a plan worked out," Harriet said, and she managed a tiny smile. "I'm fine."

"Well…well, if you're _sure_—Oh, good lord! I've got to run!" Mr Bagman said, alarmed, at the sound of a whistle. Harriet walked back into the tent and saw Cedric emerging from it, _very_ green. Harriet tried to wish him luck, tried to smile, but all that happened was she could raise her hand in a feeble wave. Viktoria and Florent Delacour were inside; Florent had taken up Cedric's pacing. Seconds later, there was a roar from the crowd; Cedric had entered the arena…

Worse by far than anything Harriet had experienced was sitting, listening to Cedric try and tackle his dragon, knowing she _could_ have helped, they could all have helped each other, but they weren't allowed. The crowd screamed, yelled, gasped like a single many-headed entity as Cedric did whatever he was doing to get past the Swedish Short-Snout. Bagman's commentary made everything much, much worse, and Harriet's imagination went on overdrive: "_Oooh_, narrow miss there, very narrow"… "He's taking risks, this one!"... "_Clever_ move—pity it didn't work!" After fifteen minutes, a deafening roar from the crowd meant only one thing: Cedric had got past the Short-Snout and had claimed his golden egg.

"Very good indeed!" Bagman shouted. "And now the marks from the judges." But there was silence for a few moments; Harriet assumed the judges were holding them up to the crowd.

"One down, three to go," Bagman yelled happily, and the whistle blew again. "Now—Monsieur Delacour, if you please!" Though pale and clammy, Florent left the tent with his head held high and clutching his wand. He left Harriet and Viktoria sitting in the tent on opposite sides, avoiding eye-contact.

The same process started again… "Oh, I'm not sure that was wise," Bagman shouted gleefully. "Oh…nearly! Careful now…good Lord, I thought he'd had it then!" Ten minutes later, the roar of the crowd, the pause for the judge's scores, and the whistle for Viktoria.

"And here comes our first female contestant—Miss Krum!" Bagman cried, and Viktoria slouched out, leaving Harriet very alone.

She was much more aware of her body than usual. How her heart was hammering a consistent beat against her throat, her fingers tingled with fear…at the same time, she was outside herself, very far away, hearing the roars of the crowd as if from back at the castle.

"Very daring!" Bagman yelled: The Chinese Fireball emitted a horrible, roaring shriek, the crowd drew its collective breath as the ground trembled. "That's some nerve she's showing—and—yes, she's got the egg!"

Krum was finished.

_My turn_.

Harriet stood up, noticing how her legs had turned to marshmallow. She waited, every nerve on edge, and then she heard the whistle. Panic rose into a crescendo inside her as she strode out of the tent, now walking past the trees, through a gap in the enclosure fence.

* * *

The Horntail—"Newt Scamander names this the most dangerous of all the breeds of dragon—can't think why, can you?" Bagman shouted over the crowd, as the crowd drew a collective gasp, staring at the Hungarian Horntail. Fifty feet tall, lizard-like, black, scaly, with catlike yellow eyes, it crouched low over her clutch of cement-coloured eggs, her wings half-furled, her evil, yellow eyes upon the criminally tiny scarlet figure that emerged, very visible trembling from head to foot, into the enclosure. The dragon lashed its spiked tail, leaving yard-long gouge marks in the hard earth.

Hermes' knees gave way and he _thumped_ onto his seat, his stomach doing _very_ funny things. "Look at its _tail_, if you will! Her back end's as dangerous as her front—she can shoot fire at a range of forty feet, our keepers tell us! Our Miss Potter's going against all the odds on this one! Wonder how she's decided to get past her dragon. We'll soon find out, won't we?!"

"Oh my God!" The Gryffindor side of the stadium—a solid mass of scarlet punctuated by shimmering gold—took a collective breath as Harriet walked in; Hermes twiddled the dials on his Omnioculars and several other students raised their own to their eyes. Hermes trained them on Harriet's face; she was more petrified than he'd ever seen her. Marble-white skin, and very hollow cheeks, her eyes wide and staring, she was absolutely _tiny_ compared to the dragon, a tenth of its height.

"Come on, Harriet, focus, _focus_!" he begged, half-standing to get an even better look at her. But she looked frozen.

"Oh dear," Bagman said quietly. "She looks a bit pale, doesn't she?"

"That's not fair!!" Hermes heard Colin and Dennis shouting. "She's the smallest—_YOU GAVE HER THE BIGGEST DRAGON_!!!"

"Your _wand_, Harriet, your _wand_!" Hermes shouted. The Durmstrang students were speaking very fast in Russian and some of the Beauxbatons girls had hidden their faces. _Everyone_ was very white, now. It had been an adrenaline kick to see the others perform—but now everyone realised, Harriet was three years younger than the other champions, hadn't even sat her O.W.L.s and was _tiny_. Even the Slytherin side couldn't bring themselves to scream for her slaughter now.

Harriet raised her wand: Hermes watched her expression; fierce determination overpowered fear. _She just has to visualise it's one of us behind it_, he thought frantically. _The hero complex will kick in, she'll be brilliant_.

"_Accio Firebolt_!" they heard her shout, and Hermes held his breath, hoping, watching the sky above the tent.

"What's she doing?"

"Her _Firebolt_, what's she want that for?"

"_GO POTTER_!!!"

Hermes saw her turn and the faintest ghost of a smile crept onto her pallid face—there it was, hurtling towards her around the woods, soaring into the enclosure, her _Firebolt_. It stopped in midair beside her, waiting for her to mount.

"Oho! She's going to try and get past the dragon in the air! Good idea—let's see how it plays out!" Bagman shouted. Harriet swung her leg over her broom and kicked off from the ground, hard. She soared upwards, the wind playing with her hair, and Hermes breathed a faint sigh of relief as he watched her expression unfreeze. Harriet was the best flier in the school, this was her best bet.

"_DIVERSIONARY TACTICS, HARRIET_!!" Alicia, Katie and Angelina all screamed, jumping on their seats, inventing a cheer: people caught on. Hermes watched through the Omnioculars as Harriet scanned the clutch of Horntail eggs beneath the dragon's front legs, the one gold one glinting amongst cement-coloured replicas.

Harriet dived—the crowd gasped: The Horntail's evil eyes followed her and several people shouted warnings needlessly—Harriet pulled out of the dive just in time, a jet of fire issuing into the air where seconds before Harriet had just been.

"Great Gwenog, but _she can fly_!" Bagman roared. "Are you watching this, Miss Krum?" Opposite the Gryffindor stands were the entrances to the first-aid tent: Krum was not injured, but stood out of the way there, Cedric Diggory sitting on a cot with orange goo pasted all over one half of his face, healing his burn (the Short-Snout had set his face alight).

Harriet soared in a circle, the Horntail followed her progress, its head revolving on its long neck—_She's making it dizzy!_ Hermes gasped, barely able to take a breath out of nerves—and Harriet plummeted just as the Horntail opened her fanged mouth—she missed the flames but every single girl in the place, and quite a few boys, screamed as the Horntails lethal tail lashed and caught her on the shoulder.

"_NO_!" Hermes shouted, jumping out of his seat, Omnioculars clamped to his eyes: But Harriet was fine, her robes only torn, and she zoomed around the back of the Horntail. Hermes watched her expression—the same expression he watched during every Quidditch match: She had realised something, she had figured out a new tactic to get what she wanted, she had a new plan.

She began to fly, first this way, then the other, not near enough to make the Horntail breathe fire, but still pose enough of a threat to her eggs to keep her interest fixed on her. The enormous, horned head followed Harriet this way and that, watching Harriet out of those vertical pupils, fangs bared…

As she rose in the air, the Horntail stretched its neck out, her head swaying, like a snake before its charmer…

"Pity she can't speak to dragons!" Justin Finch-Fletchley shouted, and the crowd laughed, gasped and waited with baited breath: the Horntail lashed its tail, but Harriet was too far out of her reach—because "she won't leave the eggs!" Hermes shouted. "Harriet's goading her—look!" The Horntail just would not lift her front legs, would not expose her precious clutch of eggs. She shot fire into the air, which Harriet dodged… the Horntail's jaws opened wide…

"_Potter! Potter! Potter!_" the chant echoed in the stillness of the wintry air, growing louder and louder, mingling with the nonsensical shouts; Harriet swerved tantalisingly above the Horntail, offering herself up as bait, Hermes watched Harriet's lips move, coaxing the dragon.

A collective breath and several wild screams as the dragon—all fifty feet, sinewy muscle, indomitable hide, fangs, claws, horns and spikes—reared, spreading great black leathery wings, wings as wide as those of a small aeroplane.

"Holy _shit_!" Hermes shouted, panting for breath now, his nerves stretched out past endurance. How long had Harriet been out there now, an hour? Two?

"But—where's she gone?" Bagman screamed.

Suddenly Harriet was no longer in his Omnioculars' field of vision: he scanned quickly; she had dived again. Before the dragon—or indeed most of the crowd—knew what was happening, or where she had disappeared to, Harriet was streaking towards the ground just as Aidan Lynch and Viktoria Krum had at the Quidditch World Cup—"Look at her go!" Bagman screamed—between the dragon's front legs, to her now unguarded eggs—she had taken her hands off the broomstick handle and seized the golden egg—

"_SHE'S GOT IT!!!!_" Hermes screamed, as Harriet spurted off, soaring over the stands that roared and cheered her with a wave, the heavy egg tucked against her stomach by her uninjured arm, the applause getting louder and louder as though they were back at the Quidditch World Cup.

"Look at that! Our youngest champion is quickset to get her egg! Five minutes only! Well, this is going to shorten the odds on Miss Potter!" Hermes scrambled through the stands, forcing his way through the crowd, to get to the stairs, to get to Harriet.

* * *

As Harriet dismounted, staggering with an overload of adrenaline, a group of people was running towards her from the entrance to the enclosure; sounds of the keepers subduing the dragon issued behind her; someone had turned the volume back on, and the screaming was _deafening_. Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody and Hagrid all ran up to her, all of them waving her towards them, their smiles very evident.

"That was _excellent_, Potter!" McGonagall shouted—and from her that was extravagant praise. Harriet noticed her hand shaking as she pointed at Harriet's shoulder. "You'll need to see Madam Pomfrey before the judges give out your score…over there, Diggory's already had to be cleaned up…"

"Yeh _did it_, Harrie'!" Hagrid said hoarsely. "Yeh did it! An' agains' the Horntail an' all, an' yeh know Charlie said that was the wors'—"

"Thanks, Hagrid," Harriet said loudly, overriding him so he didn't blunder on and reveal she'd seen the dragons two days early. Professor Moody's eye was whizzing around excitedly.

"Nice and easy does the trick, lass," he growled quietly.

"Right then, Potter, the first-aid tent, please…" McGonagall said, smiling tremulously. Harriet walked towards where McGonagall was pointing, a tent built into the stands so the champions, should they have been injured, would have been able to watch the others compete. She wished she could've seen what the others had done…

Madam Pomfrey stood looking extremely anxious, hands on her waist, outside the tent, beckoning her over.

"Dragons!" she said in a disgusted voice, pulling Harriet inside by her robes. The tent had been divided into cubicles against the back wall, but Harriet could see Cedric sitting at the end of his bed, having been watching her compete, with half his face covered in orangey goop, Mrs Diggory standing over him with a hand on his shoulder, glancing up to beam at her: Harriet opened her mouth with a gasp to ask what had happened to Cedric, but she ended up just yelping as Madam Pomfrey gave her a sharp tug and threw her off-balance onto a cot of her own.

"Last year Dementors, Potter, this year _dragons_! Why is it _always you_?" Madam Pomfrey said angrily, examining Harriet's shoulder. Harriet sat, bathed in a glow of the fact that she had _done it_. She had got past the Horntail. She was _alive_. _Eff you, whoever put me in for this! Your plan isn't working!_ "You're very lucky, this is quite shallow—it'll need cleaning up before I heal it, though…"

"_Ow_!" Harriet yelped, as Madam Pomfrey advanced with a cotton-ball doused with purple liquid.

"I haven't done anything yet!"

"I was practicing!" Harriet said, grinning giddily.

"Now—" Madam Pomfrey said, applying the liquid—"_OW_!"—which smoked and stung, then poked Harriet's shoulder with her wand, instantly healing the cut.

"Now, just sit quietly for a minute—_sit_! And then you can go and get your score," Madam Pomfrey said, forcing Harriet back onto her cot when she'd attempted to dart off it. She bustled off to the next cubicle, where Cedric sat with his orange-pasted face, and said, "How does it feel now, Diggory?"

Harriet jumped off her cot and slipped to the mouth of the tent as Madam Pomfrey tended to Cedric—and an enormous group was making their way towards her across the now-empty enclosure. Padfoot pelted towards her faster than anyone, and knocked her clean off her feet; she gave a yelp and fell, allowing him to lick every part of her face he could.

Remus pulled her off the floor into a tight hug; he was pale and looked extremely relieved, and rewarded her with a second bar of chocolate and another big hug. Tonks was leaping about the place in a fit of hyperactivity, with another young, punky-looking witch who was probably a very good friend, who held a small golden wireless broadcasting device danced around with her, shouting in a familiar voice Harriet recognised from _Muggle Matinee_, "_and there's bedlam and felicity for all as the youngest Hogwarts champion, Harriet Potter, the Girl We All Know and Love is the quickest to claim her golden egg—and I'm just outside the first-aid tent now, where Harriet herself has emerged, her shoulder fully healed, and welcomed by a gaggle of her friends and admirers—I can see Cedric Diggory and his mother inside the tent, he's got his face covered in orange burn-healing paste, so for all of you at home who've seen photos of him, be assured his good looks have _not_ depleted because of the Short-Snout_!"

Yolande, Cécile and Isabelle came running over, each absolutely jubilant, _**Harriet is our Heroine**_ badges pinned to their robes, Yolande's slender shoulders draped with a silk Gryffindor banner, and they each gave her many, _many_ kisses, Isabelle forgetting herself and babbling away in rapid French in her excitement. Raisa and Svetlana came running over, each bedecked in crimson, each holding a Bulgarian National Team flag and wearing a _**Harriet**_badge. Yolande didn't stop hugging her until Hermes showed up, large circles pressed into his skin around his eyes where he'd been clamping his Omnioculars to his face.

"You _did it_!" he yelled hoarsely, throwing himself at her, almost knocking Harriet flat. "Harriet, you were _brilliant_! You were amazing, you really were!"

"_HARRIET_!!" Mrs Weasley shrieked: she came running over, her face shining with tears, absolutely frantic, a sopping Gryffindor flag clutched in her hand which she'd been crying into, very evidently beside herself, fingernail marks on her face where she'd been gripping it. Bill jogged along beside her, grinning from ear to ear very handsomely. Harriet saw Bill's long, dark-tomato-red ponytail and was reminded instantly of Rhona, and _was_ a little surprised that she wasn't running to her.

"Harriet—you were—!" Mrs Weasley began, and burst into another violent torrent of tears, grabbing Harriet in a bone-crunching that knocked all the wind from her, crushing her against her chest.

"_Mum_! There's nothing to cry about!" Bill said exasperatedly, as Harriet struggled to breathe, squashed against Mrs Weasley. "Harriet's _fine_! She's alive! _Let go of her_—she can't _breathe_! _Mum_!" Harriet gasped for breath and staggered backwards, tripped over Padfoot and landed in a heap—to loud laughter from the crowd still watching her every move—on the floor.

"You were ze best, _sans aucun doute_—er, without any doubt in my mind, or any ozzers'," Yolande beamed. "Ced-reek did zis _incroyable_ piece of ze Transfiguration, 'e turned a rock into a _chien_—a doggy. Eet almost worked, though ze dragon decided eet would razzer 'ave 'im zan ze Labrador, and 'e only just escaped wiz 'is face burned."

"Florent used a Charm, we not know what eet was," Isabelle said thoughtfully. "Ze dragon slept, and began to snore, and eet sent a giant jet of flame, and 'is robes caught on fire, 'e 'ad to put eet out wiz water from 'is wand."

"Viktoria—you won't believe it, she didn't even _think_ of flying," Hermes said, grinning manically, eyes twinkling. "She used a Conjunctivitis Curse; I think she was probably the best after you. The only problem was, the Chinese Fireball went around trampling in agony, and she squashed half her _real_ eggs—they took a lot of marks off, as none of you were supposed to damage the real eggs."

"Look, 'Arriet, zey are about to give your scores!" Yolande said excitedly, gripping Harriet's hand and grinning. Harriet caught sight of Cécile eyeing up Bill as he gripped Mrs Weasley's shoulder comfortingly as she continued to bawl through bleary eyes, trying to see down the other end of the enclosure. "Eet is ten marks from each of ze judges."

The five judges were revealed in their raised seats draped with gold, at the very opposite end of the enclosure, behind where the Horntail had been. The first judge—Madame Maxime, raised her wand and sent something silvery into the air above her—a long, silver ribbon, it twisted itself into a large figure eight.

"That's really good!" Hermes grinned, applauding along with _everyone else_. "She didn't even give Florent Delacour that high a mark. She must've taken points off for your shoulder, though, otherwise it would have been perfect." Mr Crouch came next—he shot a number nine into the air.

"Looking good!" Bill grinned, and Remus applauded, beaming, as Tonks and her witch friend, the presenter of _Muggle Matinee _and _Nightfall with the Non-Magical_, were beside themselves, both jabbering excitedly into the wireless broadcaster. Dumbledore came next—_nine_, again.

"YAAAAY!!!" Tonks jumped around, cheering, waving the crowd above them to shout louder—they did.

Ludo Bagman—_ten_.

"Ten?" Harriet gaped, disbelieving. "But…I got hurt…what's he playing at?"

"Do not complain! Zat is ze best score any champion 'as been given!" Yolande shouted, screaming her approval, clapping her hands, as Isabelle and Cécile did the dance Harriet noticed the entire Gryffindor section was doing.

Karkaroff raised his wand—_four_.

As the crowd howled their disapproval as a whole, Harriet noticed something bear-sized, black and furry pelting towards the judge's seats. Suddenly there was an almighty _crash_ and Padfoot disappeared through the crumpled wooden barricades, and Karkaroff had disappeared—the entire audience roared with laughter, and a second later, Karkaroff's shaky arm appeared, pointing his wand at his ribbon; it morphed; _seven_. Hermes and Remus were beside themselves laughing, tears of mirth rolling down Hermes' face as Padfoot came strutting back towards them, nose and tail in the air.

"See, she's done _really well_!" Bill was cooing to Mrs Weasley, who was still sobbing.

"You're in first place, Harriet," said Charlie Weasley, jogging over, looking ecstatic. "That was _unbelievable_!" Without further ado, he'd hoisted her off the floor into a bone-crunching hug, wrapping her legs around his waist so he could squeeze her tight.

"_CHARLES_ _WEASLEY_!"

"Oh shit," Charlie whispered in Harriet's ear, letting her drop back to the ground. Mrs Weasley had recovered her composure to glower gimlet-eyed at her second-born son. "Er…ha, ha—Hi Mum."

"Don't you _dare_ 'Hi Mum' me, Charles!" Mrs Weasley shouted, and Charlie jumped back a few inches, cringing guiltily. "You _knew_ about the dragons and _you didn't tell me_!"

"Er—well, no," Charlie cringed, backing away as Mrs Weasley advanced, wand drawn.

"'_No_'!" Mrs Weasley shrieked. They all watched on as the dragon-keeper backed away fearfully from his mother.

"Reckon I should go and step in," Bill said quietly, jumping in between his eldest brother and his mum.

"William! _OUT OF THE WAY_!!!" Mrs Weasley shouted. "I'll teach _you_ to keep secrets from me, _Charles Septimus_!"

"Bill knew too!" Charlie said quickly, ducking out of the way as Mrs Weasley shot sparks into the air at him. Mrs Weasley turned to her first-born.

"_What_?"

"Nice one!" Bill shot over his shoulder at Charlie, who shrugged, grabbed his brother and used him for armour.

"William Arthur, you _knew about this and didn't say anything_?" Mrs Weasley shouted.

"Remember, Mum, your first-born child, you _love_ him, you would never do anything to harm pretty-boy Bill's chances of producing offspring," Charlie said coaxingly, glancing over Bill's shoulder to keep his mother's whereabouts known.

"The _idiots_," someone sighed, from behind Harriet, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the twins beside Raisa and Svetlana, shaking their heads. "They're letting her get into her stride," as Mrs Weasleys shouts of "_YOU DIDN'T WANT ME TO WORRY_!!" filled the air, and her two eldest, _grown _sons shrank away from her, cringing in fear and guilt.

"I theenk we should allow zem time to cool off," Yolande said, casting a worried glance at the brothers. But she had a difficult job of moving Isabelle, who was eyeing up Charlie with the keenest interest, especially his burn.

"'Arriet, 'e was ze dragon keeper, no, 'oo tended ze Chinese Fireball?" Isabelle said, turning to Harriet excitedly.

"Er—I suppose so, he does work as a dragon keeper, in Romania," Harriet said, glancing back at Charlie.

"I 'ave been wanting to know 'ow I can go and work wiz ze dragons," Isabelle sighed happily, beaming over her shoulder at Charlie, the gold binding of her thick, knee-length chestnut plait glinting in the wintry sunlight. "Would 'e talk wiz me, do you think?" Harriet looked Isabelle up and down, caught Yolande's eye, and blurted a laugh.

"He might be persuaded," she laughed, feeling more light-hearted than she had in a long time. The only thing missing, of course, was Rhona.

"Mum—_MUM_! I have to give Harriet a message!" Charlie shouted loudly, overriding Mrs Weasley's shouts of "_SHE MIGHT'VE BEEN KILLED_!!" He ran over, looking shaken beneath his perpetual tan of freckles. He shot Isabelle a grin, taking in her lovely features in a split second, and turned to Harriet.

"You have to go back into the champions' tent, Bagman wants a word!" he said excitedly, glad to be away from Mrs Weasley, who was being calmed down by Remus.

"We'll see you up at the castle," Hermes grinned, and shoved her towards the champions' tent. It looked _completely_ different inside now, friendly and welcoming—she noticed jugs of Butterbeer, fresh fruit and pastries set out on a table, had they been there before?

Viktoria, Florent and Cedric were already all inside, with their parents—Mrs Weasley had begun shouting at the twins now for being cheeky, and Remus accompanied Harriet inside—Florent's robes scorched at the hem, Cedric's face still covered with the thick, orange goop, Viktoria unscathed but prettier-looking than she had ever Harriet seen her, because she was _smiling_. But Cedric grinned, too, despite the burn-healing ointment, and said happily, "You were _excellent_!"

"Wish I coulda seen what you'd done!" Harriet beamed. "Yolande Doré said you did a really excellent bit of Transfiguration." Cedric's one visible cheek flushed happily as he grinned.

"Well done, _all of you_!" Bagman grinned, bouncing into the tent. "Now, just a quick few words. You've got a nice long break before the second task, which will take place at half-past nine on the morning of February the twenty-fourth—but we're giving you something to think about in the meantime! If you look down at those golden eggs you're holding, you will see that they open, see the hinges? You need to solve the clue inside the egg—because it'll tell you what the second task is, and enable you to prepare for it. All clear? Sure? Well, off you go then!"

"Will you wait for me?" Cedric asked, smiling at her. "Madam Pomfrey wants me back to clean me up. We can go up to the castle together, if you want."

* * *

**A.N.**: Okay, does that please y'all? Please review!


	57. The Room of Requirement

**A.N.**: Sorry for taking so long! I get distracted easily and have an overactive imagination! So, here we are, chapter fifty-seven!

Oh, and for anyone who's interested, I'm writing a new FanFiction in which Harry has a twin-sister named Violet, and Draco Malfoy has a twin-brother named Cepheus ('king') so if you want to pitch in ideas, please do so! I like receiving PMs from people! I'm at the point where Hagrid has arrived at Hut-On-The-Rock and has given Harry and Vi their Hogwarts letters. I don't know what to call the story though... Suggestions welcome. Although, listening to some Bryan Adams, perhaps 'Everything I Do--I Do For You' might be fitting? Thoughts, please?

* * *

**The Room of Requirement**

Madam Pomfrey cleaned up Cedric's face, revealing the skin beneath to be perfectly cured of any trace of burn, blemish or scar, and Cedric grinned handsomely, thanked the matron (who fluttered happily, swooning) and offered his arm, grinning from ear to ear, to Harriet, following the snakelike formation of students making their way back to the castle, the visitors heading off towards Hogsmeade. Cedric was quite quiet as they made their way around the woods.

"Is everything okay?" Harriet asked quietly. "You haven't got Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, have you?"

"What? Oh…no," Cedric chuckled.

"Then what're you thinking about that's making you look like that?" Harriet asked, peering concernedly into his face. Cedric didn't quite meet her eye as he shrugged and said, "Oh, nothing important, just stuff."

"Mm," Harriet said, undeceived. "…I forgot to tell you, I have a picture of you, did you know, from when you were about three."

"Really? How?" Cedric laughed, surprised.

"My parents made this book, um, '_Harriet's First Year_', it's a photo-journal of some major things that happened in the first year of my life," Harriet smiled sadly. "Anyway, there's a picture of you in it, with your mum. At least, I _think_ it's you two; I don't know many Cedrics—was your mother's maiden-name Jezebel? Bette Jezebel?"

"Yeah…Well, her name is Elizabeth. I've never heard anyone call her Bette, though, she's always been Ella to my dad," Cedric frowned bemusedly. "How d'you have a photograph of us from that long ago? You'd only have been…what, one?"

"Yeah…my dad took it," Harriet said, glancing up at Cedric. "He's in the picture too; he walks into the picture and gives you sweets from Honeydukes, 'cos you were in Hogsmeade."

"That's cool… I'd like to see it, if you want to show me," Cedric said, smiling subtly. "Anyway, we'd better hurry up if we want to get up to our surprise party," Cedric said, glancing up at the castle.

"Surprise party?" Harriet raised her eyebrows.

"It was Sirius's idea," Cedric said, watching Padfoot gambolling around further up the lawn. Harriet glanced from Sirius to Cedric.

"Have you been talking to him lately?"

"Yeah, a little bit," Cedric said quietly, and there was something in his expression that was very Sirius-like. Very mischievous, _rakish_. "He asked me to spread the word about for the party—apparently he had the help of a house-elf called Dobby to find a room big enough for all the Houses if they want to show up, but not let the professors know what's going on."

"How on earth did they manage that?" Harriet laughed, utterly astonished.

"Apparently, Dobby told me, it's a room called the Come and Go Room, or the Room of Requirement; it only appears when you have real need of it. Sirius asked me to get Fred and George to arrange stuff, food and drink from Hogsmeade, to have it sent up or brought up; I'm not sure how they've done it." Harriet grinned to herself mischievously; _she_ knew how they'd done it—the drink and sweets from Honeydukes they will have brought up from Hogsmeade via the One-Eyed Witch's hump, and the rest of the food would be 'stolen' from the kitchens (though Harriet, who had visited Dobby in the kitchens to give him the seven pairs of mismatched socks earlier knew the house-elves couldn't wait to give it away!) They all had Moony, Padfoot and Prongs to thank for their knowledge of the Hogwarts secret passages.

"Doesn't he get so pissed off all the time?" Cedric asked quietly, as they watched Padfoot running around like a goon.

"What do you mean?" Harriet asked, smiling.

"Having to remain a dog all the time, doesn't it irritate him?" Cedric asked, frowning thoughtfully.

"He transforms back whenever he can, when he knows no-one's around," Harriet said. "He spent all last year as a dog, without being able to transform back because of the Dementors. I think he prefers being a dog here to being a human on the run."

"Yes—I suppose he probably does love that he gets to spend a lot of time with you," Cedric said, slinging an arm casually around Harriet's shoulders as they walked up the path to the Entrance Hall. "He's very sweet on you, isn't he?" Harriet nodded, beaming, following Padfoot's progress into the castle. "You deserve it."

In the Entrance Hall, Cedric paused. "Listen, I'm gonna put this egg away; meet me in front of that portrait of Barnabas the Barmy getting clubbed by those trolls on the seventh floor," he said, grinning. "I'll get out of these _robes_, too!" Harriet laughed and made her way upstairs to Gryffindor Tower.

She ran into her dormitory without seeing anything else, went straight to her bedside cabinet and pulled out the book, the photograph album that contained photos of Lily and James with the elder Weasley boys and Gideon and Fabian, and slipped the little Opaleye dragon into her pocket (the Horntail occupied the other), opened the lovely walnut Corinthian casket with the tiny little key and searched through all the exquisite pieces of antique jewellery her mother had saved for her to the little compartment for rings, and found Fabian's—she pushed the delicate little ring onto her finger (it was of a burning coppery-gold, the love-knot was a single strand of gold twisted into the knot, and slipped onto her right ring-finger perfectly, and looked very pretty there) and whirled around, arms laden with photograph albums, and then noticed Rhona lying on her bed.

She was in much the same position she had been that night, Halloween, when she had started up the argument with Harriet, except this time there was no purposefulness in her posture, she had sunk down onto her bed and just _lay there_. How long had she been lying there?

"'Gratulations," she murmured, without looking up; she looked stunned. Harriet frowned, _really_ annoyed.

"Did you even go to _see_ the task, or were you lying there all afternoon?" she asked, glaring. It hurt to think that Rhona hadn't even bothered going to see her risk her neck.

"I saw it," Rhona said, looking down at her hands on her stomach, biting her lip. Harriet rolled her eyes and closed her trunk. _That's all I'm gonna get out of her!_ she thought, angrily. She turned back to Rhona, intent on shouting at her, but Rhona had already got out of bed, was staring at her with wide, troubled eyes.

"I…" Rhona looked down at the floor, breathing out heavily, her shoulders slumping.

"Look—" Harriet sighed—

"I'm sorry—ha! I said it first!" Rhona blurted, grinning.

"…sorry," Harriet mumbled, trailing off. She glanced up at Rhona and managed a small smile.

"I'm _really_ _sorry_," Rhona said, her voice breaking. "I know I've been a…a…"

"A friend-forsaking, secret-spilling, boyfriend-hopping, gossip-mongering, insensitive little _tart_," Harriet glared.

"Yeah, well…" Rhona mumbled, sniffing, attempting a feeble joke: "That's old news, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Harriet said quietly, staring up at her best-friend in the whole wide world.

"I'm so sorry," Rhona whimpered, leaning down to give Harriet a big hug. "I—I reckon s-someone's trying to get you killed."

"Caught on, have you?" Harriet said thickly, trying not to let the burning sensation in her throat and eyes take over. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, well, I'm never quick on the uptake, am I?" Rhona laughed hollowly into Harriet's shoulder, sniffing.

"Only took a dragon to make you see sense," Harriet sniffed.

"That thing was—it was—I don't know _how_ Charlie does it," Rhona said, letting go of Harriet finally and wiping her eyes. Harriet blinked very quickly.

It was as if the last few weeks hadn't happened: Rhona had heard about the 'surprise party' from the twins, and as they both put on something a little bit more special than school robes, they talked very quickly, sometimes interrupting each other, giggling loudly—"and he took it out, just like that! I said 'what do you expect me to do with that?' and dumped him!"—and Rhona demanding Harriet tell her everything that had happened since they'd last spoken.

"You've been busy," Rhona stared, as Harriet recounted her adventure in the lake and 12 Grimmauld Place with Kreacher, brushing her hair, parted drastically past her right eye, to the side so it concealed her scar and pinning it in place and pulled it into a loose, curling ponytail. "Are you dressing nicely for anybody?" Harriet glanced over at Rhona, who was applying mascara to her lashes, and spritzed perfume on her wrists and neck.

"Cedric's going to wait outside the Room of Requirement for me," she said, smiling.

"The what?"

"Where the party is!" Harriet laughed. Rhona just frowned.

"Fred and George didn't say anything about a Room of Requirement; they just said the room opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy," Rhona frowned.

"Oh. I supposed Dobby only told Cedric and Sirius about what the room really is," Harriet said thoughtfully.

"So what _is_ the Room of Requirement?" Rhona asked.

"Cedric said you can only find it when you have need of it," Harriet shrugged.

"Hang on…opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy…the one being clubbed by those trolls in tutus?" Rhona said slowly. "I've been in there before—it's a tiny room! Dean and I used it to snog!"

"Well, I suppose you only needed it to be a little room," Harriet shrugged.

"Shoes!" Rhona pointed out, and Harriet glanced down, snapping her fingers. "How on _earth_ have you gotten by without me reminding of you these things?" Harriet just grumbled and shoved her trunk open, going through the mountain of shoes that was quickly growing with every visit to Gladrags—they had the most _immense_ shoe-collection, of high heels and strappy high sandals and sling-backs and peep-toes and every shoe Harriet could imagine in every colour under the sun. She had discovered shoes, especially high heels that were sold with Cushioning Charms on the soles, were her 'one weakness'. Rhona started attacking her as she filtered through her ever-growing shoe collection and Harriet jumped.

"What're you doing?"

"Hiding the hair-band," Rhona tutted, taking a lock of hair from the ponytail, looping it around the hair-tie and pinning the end beneath her ponytail. Harriet selected a little pair of gold strappy 50's-style heeled sandals to wear with her fluttery floral 30s-style skirt and a pretty blouse (which she'd _also_ picked up at Gladrags, they had the _best_ stuff in their vintage room) and after grabbing her camera and tucking extra rolls of film into the delicate pockets of her skirt, tugged her shoes on as she hopped towards the door, slipping downstairs with Rhona, who had similarly spruced up with a sheath-dress. They followed the blitzes of party noise to the corridor that held the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy—Cedric leaned casually against the wall beside it, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt beneath a dark navy cable-knit sweater, his hair tousled and looking very gorgeous. His face spread into a beautiful grin as he spotted them and his eyes filtered up from Harriet's little gold sandals to her floaty skirt.

"You look like you're ready to party!" he beamed. "Is that skirt new?"

"He noticed!" Harriet beamed. "Well—new to me, yes!"

"You look lovely," he said, raising his eyebrows.

"Always the tone of surprise!" Harriet said dryly, though she flushed, pleased. Cedric rolled his eyes.

"Hello Rhona," he said, smiling. Rhona waved and indicated the door.

"Shall we go in, then?" she said, tugging on the gleaming handle. Harriet jumped and staggered backwards as a crescendo of noise hit her like a brick wall. They walked in, Rhona first, and then it was like an aeroplane was revving up: the noise grew louder and louder as people noticed who'd just arrived—through a small barricade, which the Weasley twins manned.

"Free entry to champions!" George shouted, waving them through the barrier.

"What about me?" Rhona asked indignantly, trying to get past Fred.

"Five sickles."

"You're barking. How much for _me_?"

"Five sickles."

"I'm your _sister_!" The twins exchanged a look.

"_Ten_ sickles!"

"Fred, George, let her in," Harriet laughed, seeing an outbreak of Bat-Bogeys coming on. Fred and George sighed and admitted Rhona into the main room.

"They're asking for money for admission?" Harriet said to Cedric, who grinned mischievously.

"It was Sirius's idea—he said I should mention it to them, I think he's been eavesdropping their conversations about _Weasleys'_ _Wizards_ _Wheezes_," he grinned. He laughed and pointed out Padfoot, who was stealing cream puffs and sausage rolls.

The room was enormous, easily the size of the Great Hall: someone had conjured, or thought up, a raised stage for a set of gramophones, which were tended by a third-year Muggle-born who was a dedicated Muggle and Wizarding audiophile and was notorious for spending all his pocket money on records. The centre of the room was dominated by a dance-floor, which was lit by hundreds of golden bubbles and a dozen chandeliers lit by fairies—"Norah did all the decorating," Cedric called over the noise of Lorcan d'Eath's latest number-one single. "She's got a real _knack_ for those kinds of spells; she really _gets_ this room! She put in the bathrooms!"—and the outskirts of the room were given over to large round tables groaning with food, sweets from Honeydukes and huge tubs of Butterbeer bottles and other drinks were scattered around the room amongst squashy loveseats: house-elves carrying heavy silver trays laden with food and drinks made their way around the room, avoiding the dance-floor at all costs, looking like they were having the time of their lives. There were almost a thousand people, all dancing, laughing, singing along to La Roux's really addictive song, and generally having an absolutely fabulous time.

"You're the last to arrive," Fred and George said happily, appearing to congratulate Harriet and Cedric on their performances during the first task. "Kids only, of course, all the parents are having a meal down in that room off the Great Hall with Dumbledore."

"Hang on…" Harriet squinted, laughing, through the crowd: "Isn't that _Tonks_ dancing with Aleksey and Sasha?"

"Oh, well, when we said kids, we meant kids in _spirit_ and mental-age," George corrected, grinning. "Bill and Charlie are in there somewhere too, and Madame Delacour!"

"So that's it then," Hermes shouted, storming up to Harriet and Rhona, glowering. "That's it? It's all over? You're friends again!"

"Er…"

"You two _ARE SO IDIOTIC_!" Hermes shouted, and stormed to the other side of the room, leaving Harriet and Rhona both staring around, wondering what had happened.

"Completely _barking_!" Rhona blurted, staring after Hermes, blinking quickly at Harriet.

"If we have to lock him in the dungeons, I'm _not_ changing his papers!" Harriet said, and several people close by laughed.

"Come on, Harriet, let's dance," Cedric grinned, tugging her towards the veritable mosh-pit of people dancing. Madame Delacour was indeed in the thick of all the action, dancing with the Creevey brothers and a gaggle of male admirers all drooling over her. Tonks was dancing so rambunctiously with Aleksey and Sasha that people were backing away for fear of injury, and exuberant Charlie was dancing with Isabelle, Yolande, Svetlana and Raisa, while Bill had captured Cécile and even quiet-mannered Elizaveta was been coerced by George Weasley to join the dancers. 'Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough' by Michael Jackson started playing, to the whoops and cheers of the Muggle-borns who had grown up with parents who knew every word to his songs.

* * *

If Harriet had thought, a mere three hours ago, that she would have been here, dancing like Michael Jackson with Seamus and Dean, both of whom were word-perfect (and the latter who danced exactly like MJ!) and Cedric, who coerced a group of nervous first-year girls into joining the fray of older students bound to do each other an injury dancing so energetically, with Hermes teaching Rhona how to dance the Macarena and the YMCA on too much Butterbeer and sugar, she wouldn't have believed it.

It was almost midnight before anyone discovered the hiding place of over a thousand students, and the atmosphere at a quarter-to-twelve was just the same as it had been at four in the afternoon.

But it was Mrs Diggory and Remus who found them out, not any teachers or Mr Filch. The two gave each other one long, calculating look as people giggled madly, knowing they were guilty, then locked the door behind them and joined in: Remus went to sit amongst the students who had loved him last year, who were taking a break from dancing, until Tonks came dancing over with Loveday, the announcer of _Muggle Matinee_ and _Nightfall with the Non-Magical_ (which she had broadcasted live from the party, using music the third-year supplied to the party at large) and made him dance.

Mrs Diggory, or Bette, as she insisted everyone who addressed her as Cedric's mother had to call her, started teaching anyone who wanted to learn the steps to the dances she used to perform as Madame Rosamunde's most dazzling Bouncing Babe.

"_You_ were a Bouncing Babe!" Tonks gasped, gaping at Bette, who laughed, taking an alcoholic drink from a passing house-elf. It was red, made of cherry syrup added to vodka, with crushed ice and three glace cherries on an umbrella, served in a quirky glass Uncle Vernon used to sample Grappa.

"Yes—Madame Rosamunde used to have to bind my bosom, otherwise they bounced rather more than was approved," Bette grinned, sipping her drink. "They used to serve these to us when we danced at the Kasbah, a speakeasy in Diagon Alley—it's closed now, of course, it has been for a decade."

After being so downtrodden for so long, Harriet's emotions were overwhelming as she danced and sang along and ate and drank for eight consecutive hours: People who wanted to sleep thought up sleeping-bags and slept at the edges of the room rather than risk detentions from Filch, the adults and older students kept dancing until the very early hours of the morning. For a simple surprise party to celebrate the success of the first task, it had turned into an all-night rave and by the time everybody had collapsed into squashy sleeping bags, they had been running on pure adrenaline for hours.

Harriet fell asleep with her head on Cedric's stomach, Padfoot sleeping on her feet and Rhona curled up against her stomach, people all around her.

For the first time in weeks, she fell asleep smiling.

* * *

**A.N.**: Apologies to everyone who wanted a slow, drawn-out healing process between Rhona and Harriet!


	58. The Unexpected Task

**A.N.**: Hello, hello! Another chapter. To anyone who's interested, I've just begun a story called A Rare and Precious Treasure, in which Harry and Draco Malfoy both have twins, respectively a girl, Violet Potter, and a boy, Cepheus Malfoy. It's in its early stages, but please be kind and read and review for me.

* * *

**The Unexpected Task**

* * *

It was with a hangover Harriet woke up, grumbling, sometime later on Wednesday morning. Most people were still sleeping, but a few—the younger students who had gotten to sleep before midnight—had already slipped off to breakfast…or lunch.

"I think I have a hangover," she grumbled.

"It was the sausage rolls," Rhona mumbled.

"It was the profiteroles," Hermes sighed.

"…sausage rolls…"

"…profiteroles…" Harriet lifted her head and blinked around blearily; the lights had dimmed, the gramophones had been turned off, and the room was comfortably warm… _What's the time_? she thought, and noticed a large clock painted on to the wall above the stage: she squinted, trying to discern the time; _11:24 a.m.…Hm…_ She sat up, crunching her stomach muscles, and looked around. A lot of other people were grumbling and sitting up, tousle-haired and heavy-eyed, yawning widely and glancing around as if not quite sure where they were. Cedric was just about awake, snuggled deep inside his sleeping bag, only his face visible, his eyes sparkling happily as he smiled up at her.

"It's Wednesday, isn't it?" she said to him quietly. He blinked blearily and nodded.

"Day after the first task," he yawned.

"…shouldn't we all be in lessons?" Harriet wondered, and suddenly Hermes sat bolt upright, his curly hair all over the place, at the oddest angles.

"Oh _SHIT_!" he yelped, jumping up, tripping over his sleeping-bag and landing in a very painful heap on top of Harriet, Rhona and Cedric. "Ow!"

"What're you doin'?" Rhona growled, pawing at them through her sleeping-bag.

"I've got an Arithmancy test in…_ten minutes_!" Hermes yelped hoarsely. His manic shouts alerted other people to the dire situation of ditching their morning lessons because they had hangovers and were exhausted from dancing all night.

"How come we didn't leave when T-t-Tonks left?" Charlie yawned widely; he glanced around him and noticed several of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang girls sleeping around him and Bill. "Oh. That's why! Bill, get up, brother."

Quicker than anyone would probably have thought, the Room of Requirement emptied. Norah, Harriet and Cedric were the last out, Norah closing the door and frowning in concentration, so that the door into the party-room disappeared: Cedric smiled sleepily at them, looking very adorable with his hair tousled and his cheeks flushed with warmth, and gave Harriet a kiss on the cheek before shuffling downstairs to the Hufflepuff dormitories.

Fred and George were wearing their pyjamas, though freshly showered, in the common room when Harriet and Norah clambered through with Rhona, and in a secluded corner were counting out the contents of an enormous sack. The rest of the common room was deserted, everyone else having rushed off to their dormitories.

"_Whoa_!" Rhona breathed, sinking to her knees before them, her eyes widening as she saw the figures on George's notepad as they counted the silver sickles. "How much've you got?"

"So far?" Fred yawned, counting out another roll of seventeen sickles, equalling a galleon, and adding it into the second sack that was already full and looked extremely heavy. "Three hundred galleons and all of _this_ still left to count!"

"Wow," Rhona breathed again.

"Cedric had a good idea then," Harriet breathed to George, who looked up and grinned, eyes twinkling.

"Yeah, he's not just a pretty face," he smirked. "You'd better run along, don't want Bill or Charlie telling Mum you've been out partying all night."

"At _your_ rave," Harriet said, smirking; the twins shrugged and continued counting.

* * *

"_POTTER! WEASLEY!_" Harriet and Rhona both jumped as Professor McGonagall's voice cracked like a whip through the Transfigure classroom on the first Thursday of December. "_Will you pay attention_?" It was the end of the lesson, the guinea-fowl they had been turning into guinea-pigs back in their cages, and the girls had been having a sword-fight at the back of the classroom (punctuated by Hermes' disapproving tuts) with two of Fred and George's fake wands, and they jumped and glanced up guiltily, Harriet now holding a rubber haddock, Rhona, a tin parrot.

"Now that Potter and Weasley have been so good as to act their ages," McGonagall said, her lips thin but not _as thin_ as Harriet had ever seen them, with an angry look at them as the head of Harriet's haddock drooped onto the floor (Rhona's beak having severed it seconds before), "I have something to tell you all.

"The Yule Ball is approaching," Professor McGonagall continued, and both Harriet and Rhona sat up straighter. "The Ball is a traditional part of the Triwizard Tournament and an opportunity for us to interact with our foreign guests."

"I think some of us are already _doing_ _that_," Harriet smirked, glancing sidelong at Rhona, who flushed and with a loud _thwack_ smacked her palm against Harriet's thigh, as Lavender and Parvati snorted with laughter in the row in front: Rhona had been caught kissing Valentin Romanov in an empty Charms classroom by Peeves, who had somehow obtained Harriet's Leica, and only promised to return it to her if Harriet promised to put the pictures all around the school. However, Harriet had mastered the Summoning Charm and also knew how to bide her time!

McGonagall cleared her throat, making a noise like chalk snapping, and the room fell silent of sniggers. "Now, the Yule Ball will be open only to fourth years and above, though you may invite a younger student if you wish—" Lavender Brown let out a shrill giggle; Parvati nudged her, trying to keep a straight face: It didn't work, and Harriet and Rhona both glowered at them; how come McGonagall had just shouted at _them_, but not Lavender and Parvati?

"Dress robes will be worn," McGonagall continued, "and the Ball will start at eight o'clock on Christmas Eve, continuing until midnight in the Great Hall. Now then—" She stared deliberately around the room, and continued in a disapproving voice, "the Yule Ball is of course a chance for all of us to—er—let our hair down." Rhona caught Harriet's eye and they both choked on their laughs. Professor McGonagall, with her hair in a tight bun, looked as though she had never let her hair down in any sense. "But that does NOT mean that we will be relaxing the standards of behaviour we expect from Hogwarts students. I will be most seriously displeased if a Gryffindor student embarrasses the school in any way."

"No dancing for you, then, Seamus," Dean laughed, and Seamus punched him on the arm as the class laughed, though he grinned good-naturedly. The bell rang, and there was the usual scuffle of activity as everyone packed their bags and swung them over their shoulders, incapacitating each other.

"Potter—a word, if you please," McGonagall called over the ruckus. Assuming this had something to do with either her rubber haddock or her perfected guinea-pig, Harriet didn't know what frame of mind she should be in as she approached McGonagall's desk. She waited until the rest of the class had gone and then said, "Potter, the champions and their partners—"

"What partners?" Harriet blurted. Professor McGonagall looked at her suspiciously, as if she was acting like an idiot on purpose.

"Your partners for the Yule Ball, Potter," she said coolly. "Your _dance partners_."

"_Dancing_!" Harriet shuddered.

"It's traditional for the three champions—in this case _four_—to open the ball with their partners," McGonagall said sternly. Harriet wanted to puke.

"I'm not dancing in front of other _people_!"

"You danced, did you not, the night the entire school went missing?" McGonagall said tartly.

"Yeah, but there was Butterbeer involved—and everyone looked like idiots, not just me!" Harriet said. "I'm not dancing!"

"It's traditional," McGonagall repeated firmly. "You are a Hogwarts champion, and you will do what is expected of you as a representative of the school. So make sure you get yourself a partner, Potter."

"But—I don't want—"

"You heard me, Potter."

Harriet bumped into none other than her heart's desire only minutes after McGonagall's horrifying announcement—quite literally _bounced off him_, sprawling in an unflattering heap on the floor, catching her bag before it smacked her in the face.

"Harriet?" Cedric's voice sounded concerned and highly amused. Harriet cracked an eye open, and realised not for the first time how tall Cedric was.

"Sorry!" she groaned, her bottom and head feeling tender where he'd swept her off her feet, as Cedric's friends howled with laughter—though none of them wore _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY_ badges any longer.

"I knock you to the ground and you apologise!" Cedric said, tugging his bag higher up his arm to offer it to Harriet and pull her gently off the floor.

"Yeah, well," Harriet said, thinking up something witty to cover her embarrassment, "I hit my head!" Cedric's smile was worth noticing how pretty, busty and tall his female friends were.

"I'll see you down there," Cedric said to them, grinning, pressing him to join them on the way down to dinner, and Harriet was highly relieved when those twittering blondes had rounded the corner with their guy friends.

"I haven't seen you much since the party," Cedric beamed, as they made their way down the corridor at their own leisurely pace.

"Well, I don't know if you knew this or not, Cedric, but I'm a _very_ important person," Harriet smirked. "I mean, this week alone I've had two dates with Snape in detention, and the Photography Club is just _clamouring_ to have me be Vice-President, and what with all my letters I have to write, well…it's _exhausting_!"

"And yet you still remain so modest," Cedric teased, grinning at her and chuckling in amusement. In truth, only one detention with Snape had actually _been_ a detention—the other had been her first Occlumensy lesson since before the first task.

"Did Professor Sprout tell you about the Yule Ball?" Harriet asked darkly, as they passed what she knew was Professor McGonagall's office, though she knew perfectly well McGonagall was already heading downstairs for dinner.

"Yeah, I heard about that, alright," he chuckled, flashing his lovely teeth.

"McGonagall said we have to have partners," Harriet growled. The image of her in one of Aunt Petunia's frilly party dresses, dancing with a partner in tails could not be banished from her mind, and she shivered despite herself.

"I doubt you'll have trouble getting one," Cedric smiled. Harriet gave him a dark look.

"Every boy in this place except for you and Hermes has been quoting that stupid _Daily Prophet _article at me," Harriet said sadly, hoisting her bag higher up her shoulder, _And wearing those badges_. She remembered what Hermes had said about Viktoria Krum—"_She_ _isn't even very beautiful—they only like her because she's famous_." She didn't want to go with anyone who thought of her like that. She wanted to go with someone who liked her, who she could talk to like she talked to Rhona and Hermes. Someone who…

"Cedric, would _you_ go to the Ball with me?" she asked, before she could stop herself. Then she stopped, horrified, and stared up at Cedric, realising how tall and how handsome and how much older than her he was. And she felt her own cheeks burn as Cedric's started to glow.

"Oh…" _REJECTION_ blared across Cedric's forehead; he didn't even need to say the words for her to know it in his face. Panic flared in her brain and she heard herself blurting, "Never mind, forget it. I was just thinking out loud." And an alien pair of legs had her almost running down the Hall to Rhona and Hermes. She sank down, her face burning and her insides bubbling unpleasantly.

"What's wrong with you? Did McGonagall have a go about the fake wands?" Rhona asked, looking highly surprised, around a mouthful of goulash.

"Are you alright, Harriet? You've gone very white," Hermes said concernedly. Harriet was vaguely aware of movement to her right and jumped when Padfoot licked her face and whined sympathetically.

"You heard that, didn't you?" she sighed heavily, cringing as the memory replayed over and over in her head. _Great_, she moaned. The single most embarrassing moment of her life (sans Aunt Petunia shaving her head that one time) and Sirius had been there to witness it.

"Heard what?" Rhona asked, now on to the spotted dick and custard. Harriet cringed over the dish of goulash Hermes had served her.

"I think I just asked Cedric Diggory to the Ball," she whispered, mortified. He'd never speak to her again, now.

"_Really_?" Rhona crowed gleefully.

"That's wonderful!" Hermes smiled broadly. "You've liked him for ages, haven't you!"

"So—_what did he say_?" Rhona grinned, squirming with anticipation; Hermes's expression fell as he saw the look on Harriet's face.

"He didn't say anything," Harriet said, going off her goulash and turning to the comfort-food pudding instead. "I didn't give him a chance."

"Oh, Harriet!" Hermes sighed, rolling his eyes.

"You didn't see the _look on his face_," Harriet said desperately, feeling her cheeks flush.

"Harriet, you don't know what he was going to say," Hermes said gently.

"Yeah—it's not often a midget in glasses asks him out!" Rhona laughed, almost falling off her bench. Harriet gave her a very dangerous look.

"Harriet isn't _that_ small, Rhona," Hermes said exasperatedly. "She's grown loads over the last few months, and she stopped wearing glasses ages ago! Stop _laughing_, Rhona—let's see how _you_ fare getting yourself a partner, if you think boys would rather go with someone a foot taller than them." Rhona's expression as she and Hermes glared at each other was enough to lift Harriet's mood—a fraction.

"You like him, don't you, Harriet, I know you do," Hermes said quietly, turning his back on Rhona. Harriet squirmed, her cheeks very hot.

"So what?" she murmured dejectedly. "He's beautiful and he's really popular, and there'll be a hundred girls waiting to fall at his feet. Why would he even consider going with me?" Hermes rolled his eyes exasperatedly.

"Harriet, you have _no idea_ of the effect you have on people," he said, throwing up his hands. "Particularly _boys_."

"Yes I do—I make them physically repulsed," Harriet said. "How come I've never even been _kissed_, if I'm so _effective_ on the male psyche?"

"I'm not going to win this argument, am I?" Hermes said to Rhona, who had helped herself to another bowl of spotted dick.

"No."

Dawdling, miserable, back to Gryffindor tower, Hermes put all his efforts into coercing Harriet to turn around, go and find Cedric and ask him again, and "_really_ ask him, this time!"

"Maybe after a healthy dose of brandy," Rhona smirked. "For the nerves, of course—I don't know what you're worrying about, Harriet. You're _Harriet Potter_—you're a Hogwarts champion." With their renewed friendship, Rhona kept her bitterness to a minimum. "I bet they'll be lining up."

* * *

Rhona was right—to an extent. Before she'd even left the common-room the next morning, a good-looking sixth-year called McLaggen had waylaid her at the portrait hole. So surprised (and intimidated) by him, she had said "No" before realising it—and was consequently treated to a fifteen-minute lecture from Rhona on how gorgeous, Gryffindor and not monumentally tall he was.

Harriet was so embarrassed, and annoyed with Rhona, that by the time she dropped into her seat at the Gryffindor table, having glowered away a prospective partner from Hufflepuff in the Entrance Hall (which had Rhona almost beside herself laughing), Harriet was a "Right little terror," as Hermes called her, dropping into a seat beside her at the table, catching sight of Harriet's expression and giving Rhona an annoyed look.

Her mood wasn't helped—especially so early in the morning, before her first three cups of tea—by a loud burst of squeals from the Ravenclaw table. It was always best not to badger Harriet before those three cups of tea, and the girls sitting directly behind her were about to realise why. Harriet wasn't the only one annoyed by the squeals and giggles, but she was the only one who acted on it.

"_Would you KEEP THE NOISE DOWN_!" she bellowed, turning to give her most dangerous glower. It was Cho Chang—the pretty fifth-year Ravenclaw Seeker—and her twittering nitwit friends, all looking disturbingly chipper and proud of themselves. "What are you all _cackling_ about?"

"Cedric Diggory just asked me to the Yule Ball," Cho giggled. Harriet heard a soft whisper of "Oh _no_," from Rhona, and a groan from Hermes, and sat ramrod-straight, glowering at Cho Chang until the smile had slipped from each and every face, and they all turned hastily to their breakfast. Harriet turned back to Hermes and Rhona, her shoulders slumping, her heart turning over and her stomach doing very funny things. She wanted to throw up. She glanced up at Hermes, who had _convinced_ her Cedric had probably wanted to go with her.

"Waiting for me to ask him again, huh?" she said softly, feeling completely miserable.

"Harriet, I'm… I'm sorry if I got your hopes up," Hermes said, looking extremely uncomfortable and guilty. Harriet was contemplating how hard the table was, and pushed her plate out of the way. "Is there nobody else you can think you'd like to go with?"

_WHAM_.

"I think you should take that as a no," Rhona said, as Harriet started to beat her head against the table like a house-elf punishing himself. "Come on, let's get her out of here."

But Harriet had made up her mind.

"I am _NOT_ going to this _effing_ Yule Ball—_Eff_ McGonagall, I don't care what she _effing_ says, I'm not _effing going_," Harriet shouted, as Rhona shepherded her out of the Great Hall, her forehead pounding. "I don't care if it's _effing_ tradition, I'm an _effing_ _un_traditional champion, so I'll _effing_ decide if I _effing_ go to this _effing_ Ball and _effing_ dance in front of everyone else!"

"My, you have a potty-mouth when you want one!" Rhona said briskly. "You'd best hope I don't tell Mum—about you swearing _and_ about you not going to the Ball."

"She can't _effing_ make me!"

"Okay, you're in a mood."

Rhona let Harriet simmer for a few hours, warning Hermes not to upset her, in case Harriet hexed him—as she had been everyone who mentioned the Ball, using _Langlock_ on them, the useful little spell Charlie had mentioned to her in a letter. Harriet hadn't before really understood how Merope Gaunt could have lost her magic because her disillusioned husband had left her—but every time she saw Cedric now, something shrivelled up painfully inside her, leaving her feeling like she had a baby Dementor living in the vicinity of her heart. It didn't help that she kept seeing _Cho_ _Chang _around the corridors (Hermes had to keep taking her wand between lessons that Friday, as Cho had been an unfortunate victim of a spell Tonks had recommended in the letter of Remus's she had commandeered, _Levicorpus_, which had given everyone a magnificent view of Cho's Bridget Jones knickers during break that day when Harriet used it nonverbally. Only Moody seemed to have noticed it had been Harriet who used the curse on Chang, and he applauded Harriet's progress with nonverbal magic.

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**A.N.**: Ah, to feel love's keen sting, as Dumbledore says. Everyone knows what unrequited love feels like… SO PLEASE REVIEW!!!


	59. Twinkletoes

**A.N.**: Hihi! Please review! And please visit my story, A Rare and Precious Treasure.

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**Twinkletoes**

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Despite all Harriet's efforts to curse any and everyone who mentioned the Ball on Friday, a notice was put up in the Entrance Hall, saying that dance lessons would be given year-by-year in the Great Hall under the instruction of Madame Maxime the following day: "Dance lessons! Are these people _completely_ _heartless_?"

"'_Students are required to wear heels and smart blazers_'," Rhona read off the notice-board. "Oh, dear! Hermes, you'll have to borrow some from us!"

"Oh, you're hilarious," Hermes said dryly, shepherding them into the Great Hall for lunch (Harriet's wand tucked into his bag so she couldn't hex Cedric—as Rhona had made the mistake of teaching her the Bat-Bogey Hex, to enormous effect, even and especially when used nonverbally).

Several good things happened on Friday at lunchtime, however: the first week of December, it meant the arrival of _advent calendars_. Chocolate ones—a _Celebrations_ one from the Dursleys, a quilted one with homemade fudge inside each little handmade pouch from Mrs Weasley, and one Sirius had ordered from Honeydukes, which featured a different flavour chocoball every day and a charm suggestion for decorating the home or office, which filled the girls' dormitory with so many garlands, strings of tinsel, fairies, golden bubbles, hooting golden owls, baubles that sang Christmas carols, luminous holly berries and mistletoe that it was difficult upon entering the room, as the days were to wear on, to distinguish where the furniture was.

Rhona made Harriet dress up prettily on Saturday morning, with the hope that _feeling_ like she looked very pretty might encourage Harriet to stop glowering and let the boys in their class see how pretty she was. So Harriet wore a sleeveless, ankle-length skinny thermal grey jumpsuit underneath a sleeveless champagne-cotton draped-neck dress with a bow detail at the left shoulder and sewn all over with artificial pearls. She wore it with one of Daisy's old belts looped twice around her waist, with a metallic blue-black pearl necklace and her plain black suede high-heels, the soles Cushioned.

"There. Elegant and casual, _with_ _heels_," Harriet said, turning slowly in a circle so Rhona could judge and approve.

"Do something with your hair, and we can go," Rhona said, tugging on a pair of shoes with only a one-inch heel. "God, _nobody's_ going to want to dance with me! I'm already taller than everyone except Dean and Hermes."

"Valentin will dance with you," Harriet said, brushing her hair and pulling it up into a bun. "It's your own fault you can't go with Dean—you should've waited 'til after the ball to dump him, shouldn't you?"

"S'pose so," Rhona sighed heavily. "…at least _you_ asked the boy you like. I have to wait around for someone to ask me."

She wouldn't tell Rhona, but she wasn't as angry with Cedric for asking anyone else as she was hurt. However she had tried to cover it up immediately afterwards, Harriet _had_ asked him to the Ball: She had—and _did _—want to go to the Yule Ball with him. Not because she was completely and irrevocably in love with him, and had acknowledged that the night they had danced until four in the morning after the first task, but…mostly because she didn't _know_ anyone else.

It wasn't that she didn't like talking to anyone else, she just _didn't_ talk to anyone else, not the way she talked with Cedric, and not as comfortably as she talked with Hermes, or even Charlie Weasley. Everyone else just saw her as Harriet Potter, the Girl Who Didn't Die, the sneak who'd lied about putting her name into the Tournament, the girl Rita Skeeter had written about so venomously, the 'Elf-Freer and Dragon-Slayer,' as Dobby said every time he came to visit her in the common room of an evening when she stayed up late doing homework (always arriving with a clotted-cream scone for her, because he knew she had a special liking for them).

They made their way downstairs before lunch, and thankfully no other years had been invited to watch, so the fourth-years had privacy from the rest of the school whilst they attempted to make complete and utter doughnuts out of themselves, Professor Dumbledore swept his wand across the Hall and sent the tables to the edges of the room, leaving a very large space available for them.

"The floor is yours, Madame Maxime," Professor Dumbledore said suavely, sweeping her a bow and kissing her hand, then sweeping out of the Hall with the other teachers, leaving only Yolande and Guillaume in the hall with their headmistress. Harriet sat down beside Rhona, scanning through _Witch Weekly_.

"You will all observe my pupils," Madame Maxime said imperiously, gesturing Yolande and Guillaume into the centre of the Hall: Harriet glanced up and watched Guillaume leading Yolande into the centre of the dance-floor with only their fingertips touching, both moving very elegantly, and they fell into form beautifully. Madame Maxime gestured her wand at a gramophone and a slow, delicate piece of classical music started issuing from it; _Clair de Lune_. Despite the slow pace of the music, Yolande and Guillaume seemed to set their own rhythm, moving with perfect grace and perfect synchronisation around the floor. It was mesmerising, watching them dance, they moved with such poetry it was as if they were watching a love story unfolding before their very eyes. They were _perfect_. Anybody could see just how much both of them wanted to be in each other's arms, even if it was just acting.

Everyone murmured and fidgeted as the song ended and Guillaume swept into a very gentlemanly bow, Yolande dipping gracefully, and stood side-by-side as applause broke out, and Madame Maxime stopped the record. Everyone murmured disparagingly—"I'll _never_ be able to do that," Norah moaned piteously, looking thoroughly downhearted.

"Now, zey are ze best _danseurs_ in Beauxbatons," Madame Maxime said, nodding to her pupils, who stood with their hands behind their backs, smiling. "We do not expect you to dance as zey 'ave done… 'Owever, I require a volunteer pair…No one? Hm…" Madame Maxime strolled up and down the Hall, examining the prospective victims.

"Mademoiselle 'Arriet, _un minute_, stand 'ere, please," she said, sweeping her great long lashes over the Gryffindors clustered together beside the Hufflepuffs. Harriet groaned and Rhona snickered as she unfolded languorously and climbed down the benches. "Stand 'ere, please."

"Right here?" Harriet said, hopping into the spot exactly where Madame Maxime had implicated. Madame Maxime chuckled and smiled, shaking her head.

"Such things you say; you 'ave your muzzer's wit! But 'oo shall dance wiz you?" Madame Maxime mused, strolling along the Hall again.

"No one," Harriet mumbled hopefully, her cheeks flushing as she felt all eyes on her, people snickering. She stood with hunched shoulders, her arms folded tightly across her chest, glaring to cover her flush of embarrassment.

"Aaaah!" Madame Maxime said luxuriously. "_I_ know 'oo eet will be! You, Monsieur, wiz ze silver 'air. _Oi_, you! I 'ave seen you staring at Mademoiselle 'Arriet before zis day, you will now dance wiz 'er." Harriet glanced up and groaned, her shoulders and arms falling lax, as Madame Maxime tugged Draco Malfoy by his blazer to the floor. Malfoy glared at her as if daring her to make a comment about Maxime saying she'd seen him staring at her, but Harriet just stared back sullenly.

"Now, Monsieur Malfoy, put your right 'and on Mademoiselle 'Arriet's waist," Madame Maxime said, and as Malfoy moved to follow directions, Harriet reacted instinctively and gave his hand a sharp _SLAP_. "Oh! 'Arriet, zat is unkind! Do as you are instructed!" Glowering at Malfoy, whose eyes were chips of ice as he glared back, Harriet _allowed_ Malfoy to put his hand on her slender waist, and raised her hands, one onto his left shoulder, the other to take his other hand. Madame Maxime frowned, circled them, examining their posture. Someone wolf-whistled and Harriet broke off from Malfoy and shot Rhona the finger, who sat snickering with Seamus. Madame Maxime forced Harriet back into position.

"Very good posture," Madame Maxime said, making sure Harriet's elbow didn't droop; she stood straight-backed and annoyed, determined not to let herself be outdone by Malfoy, not in front of all these people, people who were used to seeing her wipe the floor with Malfoy at Quidditch matches. "Now—on my count, you will step. One, two three." It was nothing as elaborate as Yolande and Guillaume's dance, but it was complicated enough that Harriet kept frowning and glancing down at their feet—which made Madame Maxime shout "look up, 'Arriet! Gaze into ze eyes of your amour!"

"My _what_?" Harriet blurted, shuddering away from Malfoy; he narrowed his eyes and held tight to her hand and waist, not allowing her to escape. Madame Maxime tutted and kept count. Harriet glared at Malfoy, who smirked and choked a laugh back every time Madame Maxime said the phrase "_gaze into ze eyes of your amour_!" and once or twice, Harriet stepped on his toe on purpose.

When Harriet and Malfoy had got the rudimentary waltz steps down, Madame Maxime had them stop for a moment. "Mesdames, it eez your responsibility to follow ze lead of your partner—Messieurs! On your feet, do not keep zem waiting!"

Predictably, Norah was left without a partner, even though she was the first to leap eagerly to her feet, and she looked so disconsolate and on the verge of tears at being left out yet again that Guillaume was moved to bow and kiss her hand and lead her onto the dance-floor.

It began again, and Harriet noticed that in the time they had waited for the others to partner up, she had not let go of Malfoy's shoulder, and he still held her waist. She swallowed, and glanced at Malfoy, flushing when she realised he was studying her face. Had he been staring at her very long? She felt very hot under the collar, and licked her lips, glancing around the Great Hall for a distraction. She…she _liked_ the feel of his hand on her waist…and her hand in his felt…_nice_. As she realised this, her stomach gave a wobble in response to the thought, and she glanced at Malfoy again, realising he was _still_ staring at her.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" she murmured, frowning. Malfoy narrowed his eyes.

"No reason."

"Good. Then stop doing it."

"Oh, but I _can't_," Malfoy smirked. "You are my _amour_, sweet."

"Call me that again, _sweet_, and I shall put a Permanent-Sticking Charm on your tongue," Harriet said, smiling sweetly. Malfoy smirked but didn't say anything else. And that just made Harriet curious, and she kept glancing at him. His eyes always met hers, and she began finding she couldn't look away very easily.

Madame Maxime drew their attention for a moment, and then they were dancing again: The steps got easier, Harriet found, she was soon sweeping around the floor with Malfoy, completely in-synch, their footwork "charmant!" and their postures still perfect. They were even almost _smiling_ as they danced. Harriet realised she liked dancing, like this anyway. Perhaps not with everyone watching, but she could see why Aunt Petunia loved those television shows where celebrities learned to dance, and why _Dirty Dancing_ was her favourite film. Norah, too, was having similar success—she was soon sweeping around with Guillaume, grinning from ear to ear at Harriet, speaking very earnestly with Guillaume.

It hadn't been as painful as she had anticipated at the beginning of the lesson. Madame Maxime applauded everyone at the end of the session. The fifth years filed in—Harriet felt the urge to hex Cho Chang into oblivion, and Malfoy seemed to have noticed her expression, as he walked beside her to the doors to the Entrance Hall, because he said quietly, "You asked Diggory, didn't you?"

"To what?" Harriet said quietly, taking her heels off and groaning with pleasure at the feeling of being able to clench her toes again.

"To the Yule Ball," Malfoy tutted softly. "I saw you, yesterday morning, glaring at that Chang girl. You looked like you wanted to claw her eyes out with your fingernails. I saw Diggory ask her in the Entrance Hall." Harriet flushed and shot him a glare.

"Alright, I _did_ ask him!" she snapped, feeling very warm. "So what?"

"Most girls would wait around for the boy to ask them," Malfoy shrugged. "Did he say no?"

"He said 'Oh' and I ran away," Harriet said, getting very agitated. Rhona and Hermes were waving her over to the marble staircase.

"Why didn't you wait for him to answer?" Malfoy said thoughtfully.

"You sound like Hermes—because he was probably already planning how to ask _that_ little tart out," Harriet said, shooting a glower at Cho Chang, which the other girl noticed.

"You know, you keep looking at people like that, someone's going to burst into flame," Malfoy teased quietly, sweeping her around the floor and twirling her; she fell back into place immediately and kept dancing.

"Good, maybe it'll be Diggory. I heard he looked magnificent with his face aflame," Harriet said tartly. Malfoy's lips twitched and he tried not to let his smirk morph into a _smile_ and Harriet stalked off to Rhona and Hermes, feeling extremely agitated about Draco Malfoy having a civil conversation with her—_holding hands_, something she had never even done with a boy in primary school, pretending they were married in the playground…mostly because all of the boys in her class had laughed at her so cruelly she had most often than not fallen asleep crying over it in her cupboard.

* * *

Everyone was getting into the Christmas spirit, or perhaps the Professors were determined to show Hogwarts at its very best, because when the Christmas decorations up, they were the most exquisite Harriet had yet seen; everlasting icicles had been attached to the banisters of the marble staircases, whilst garlands had been draped around almost every single other one, and the usual twelve Christmas trees in the Great Hall were bedecked with everything from golden bubbles to real, hooting, golden owls, and the suits of armour had been bewitched to sing Christmas carols, though they didn't know all the words, and several times Filch had to extract Peeves from inside a suit of armour, because he had been filling all the gaps in the song with rude lyrics of his own invention. The Gryffindor common room was exceptionally warm and well-decorated, perhaps because of the proximity the Durmstrang students were to it, and there was one enormous Christmas tree in the common room, and individual smaller ones in the centre of the round dormitories, which were decorated with everything from gilt gingerbread to gold and silver bells to sparkling fairy tinsel and glowing stars and angels that fluttered around the top of the tree, so that the dormitories had a perpetually dark, warm, golden glow during the nights.

Snape was supervising revision in the Great Hall, beneath the snow bewitched to melt before it touched the tops of their heads, amidst the Christmas decorations and the perpetual smell of mince pies.

"This is ridiculous. How come _we're_ the last ones in our year to find partners?" Rhona said indignantly, glancing around the Great Hall for any potential candidates they hadn't already considered: Snape spotted her attention wavering and grabbed her head, forcing her to look back at her Transfiguration textbook. "Everyone knows we're the prettiest girls in Gryffindor."

"Maybe it's got something to do with your arrogance," Hermes said curtly, scribbling away at his Arithmancy homework.

"Excuse me, I am nowhere _near_ as conceited as Pansy Parkinson—and at least I'm under no delusions as to how pretty I am," Rhona said, and Harriet smirked, catching sight of Parkinson at the Slytherin table, fawning over Malfoy, who looked politely repulsed.

"Well, at least Norah's still on her own," Rhona smirked. "She still needs a partner."

"But, then again, Norah could probably take herself," Harriet grinned; almost every time they'd gone up to their dormitories over the last few nights, Norah had been in there wearing her pyjamas and heels, practicing her dancing with an invisible partner; she hummed the music Madame Maxime had made Harriet dance to for eight solid hours.

"It might interest you to know that Norah already _has_ a partner," Hermes said, scribbling away. Harriet and Rhona exchanged a mortified look.

"_Oh_!" Rhona gasped, then hid her face when Snape drifted past. "Now I'm _really _depressed." Fred caught their attention by throwing a piece of scrap paper onto Rhona's textbook. She picked it up and Harriet read over her shoulder, '_Get a move on or all the good ones will have gone_.' Snape drifted past, and Rhona passed the paper back.

"Who are you going with then?" she whispered. Fred winked, picked up a ball of paper, and threw it at Angelina Johnson.

"Oi! Angelina!"

"What?" Angelina whispered back: Snape stood behind her, examining someone's work carefully.

"Do _you_," Fred pointed at her, "want to go to the Ball," he gestured his arms as if dancing, "with me?" he finished, pointing at himself. Angelina rested her elbow on the table, grinning lazily.

"The Yule Ball?" she breathed. "Yeah, alright then." Fred grinned, caught the girls' eyes and winked.

"Hey, Hermes, you're a boy," Rhona said, sizing Hermes up. Hermes rolled his eyes but didn't look up from his Arithmancy notes. Rhona gestured as if dancing, just as Fred had just done. Harriet glanced up, smiling, saw Snape advancing and tugged on Rhona's sleeve: she ignored her and ploughed on. "Come with one of us—_ow_!" Snape walloped Rhona around the head with the exercise book, then Harriet for laughing.

"Come on," Rhona wheedled. "It's one thing for a bloke to show up alone—for a girl it's just sad. We might as well go together."

"I won't be going alone," Hermes said tersely, but Harriet detected a flush in his cheeks. "Just because it's taken you almost four years to realise it, does not mean other girls haven't noticed _I'm a boy_."

"Oh, come on, we know you're a boy," Rhona said, rolling her eyes amusedly. "Come on, swallow your pride and take Harriet—she'll look a right numpty without a partner."

"Well—as a matter of fact, I _would_ have taken Harriet, but I've already asked someone," Hermes flushed, getting out of his seat very quickly and stalking up to Snape, handing over his exercise book. He stalked back, picked up his things, and hissed, "And_ she_ said _yes_." They gaped, completely nonplussed, as Hermes stalked out of the Great Hall.

"Bloody hell!" Rhona's eyebrows were near her hairline. She turned to Harriet, her expression determined. "He was lying."

"He wasn't," Norah said quietly, leaning in. Harriet and Rhona exchanged a look.

"Whaddaya mean?" Harriet said.

"Well—I asked him, you know, after Potions," Norah blushed. "He's always been really nice to me, you know, helping me with Potions, I thought it might be nice... But he said he'd already asked someone else."

"Come off it!" Rhona scoffed. She turned to Harriet. "_Who_ would go with Hermes?"

"Oh, that's really nice! _Ow_!" Snape whacked her around the head, and Rhona; he walloped Norah, who had flushed and tucked her head down in preparation. When he had migrated to the Ravenclaw table to deal with Cho's Cacklers, as Harriet called them, Rhona set her expression determinedly.

"I reckon we're just going to have to take a leaf out of your book, Harriet," she said.

"What? Not bother?"

"Man up and do it ourselves," Rhona said. "Tonight when we get back to the common room, we'll _both_ have partners, agreed?" Harriet sighed heavily.

"Agreed," she sighed, not knowing _who_ on earth she would be able to ask. It was widely known that Harriet Potter would hex anyone who dared ask her out. Someone's hand gripped the top of her head and forced her head down, groaning. Snape stalked off, his bat-like robes billowing, and Harriet glowered after him.

* * *

Staggering upstairs with her workload, intent on using some time in the abandoned dormitory to open her golden egg again to see if the shrill shrieking inside it had stopped and changed into something else, Harriet walked headlong into Malfoy's group of Slytherin friends. Each of them bore a _Support CEDRIC DIGGORY _badge, save Malfoy, who was at the heart of the group and looked as if he was the one least enjoying himself.

Harriet reached the top of the stairs and frowned, thinking quickly. Well…she already knew Malfoy could dance. And he had been somewhat…_bearable_ yesterday during their dance lessons…She liked the scent of the barest hint of cologne he used…

"Hey!" she whirled around, and several of the boys glanced over their shoulders. "Not _you_! _You_! Malfoy!"

"Potter?" he said, sneering for theatrical effect. "What d'you want?"

"D'you have a partner for the Yule Ball?" she asked, frowning. Pansy Parkinson practically sprouted poison fangs, her hiss was so venomous.

"No," Malfoy said, trying not to look too embarrassed.

"Well, you do now. I'll meet you down here at quarter to eight on Christmas Eve," Harriet said.

"Er—what?" Harriet was already halfway down the corridor as his stunned reply echoed up the marble staircase, her adrenaline levels doing very funny things. Well…she had a partner for the Ball now, McGonagall couldn't have another hissy fit…however, Malfoy had been her sworn enemy since their first year…he was in Slytherin…he was a _pureblood_… But the others were right—she would look like the world's most supreme doughnut if she showed up at the Ball without an escort.

Twenty minutes later, Harriet was sprawled on the sofa by the fire, attempting to get a bit of her holiday homework out of the way before the holidays actually began, distracted by the fact that she had just asked out _Draco Malfoy_, feeling completely mortified every time she thought about it, her cheeks flaming up, her stomach flipping over, and the portrait hole burst open, and Rhona pelted in, pirouetted around with wild eyes and saw Harriet staring at her, eyebrows quirked, and flung herself onto the sofa with a dramatic wail.

"Something wrong?" Harriet asked mildly. Thinking on it now, Harriet realised she could have been a little bit more…_smooth_, asking Draco Malfoy to the Ball, but she was all in a dither, and now that she had the hurdle of finding a partner behind her, she felt a little bit better about the whole debacle, no matter who said partner was. As George said, there was no point dwelling on Cedric Diggory; he was a useless pretty-boy who would grow ugly in time and "has no more brains than Fred's left testicle."

Rhona looked up at Harriet with blind horror plastered on her face, her freckles going very pale. "Why did I do it?" she wailed, burying her face in Harriet's stomach when she'd moved her Herbology textbook. "I don't know what made me do it!"

"Do what?" Harriet asked, starting to get a little unnerved by Rhona's self-destructive mood.

"I—I just asked Florent Delacour to the Ball," Rhona whimpered, looking scared and ill at the same time.

"You _what_?" Harriet gaped incredulously. Rhona disliked Florent Delacour even more than _Harriet_ did.

"I don't know what made me do it!" Rhona gasped again. "I was just getting up to follow you upstairs, and I walked past the Hufflepuff table, and he was sitting there with Diggory, and…I don't know! What was I _playing at_? There were people—all around—I've gone mad—everyone watching! He was sitting there talking to Diggory and…something just came over me and…I asked him!"

Harriet patted Rhona's head sympathetically, reading from her Herbology textbook as Rhona muttered with complete humiliation into her stomach. "He looked at me like I was a sea-slug or something, I don't know! Didn't even answer—and then I just sort of came to my senses and ran for it!

"He's part-Veela," Harriet sighed, patting Rhona's hair. "His grandmother was one. His mother is _definitely _part one. It wasn't your fault, I bet you were just walking past when he was turning on the charm and you got a blast of it."

"Why would he be 'turning on the charm' for Cedric?" Rhona asked hollowly, sniffling.

"I dunno…Uncle Vernon would call Delacour a 'swotty Nancy-boy'," Harriet smirked.

"You think he's a poof?" Rhona said, glancing up, her eyebrows raised. Harriet shrugged.

"I dunno! That's just what Uncle Vernon would call him! He's prettier than almost every girl here," Harriet shrugged. "Spends far too much time in the mirror, I reckon. That's what Yolande says, anyway."

"What are you two talking about?" Hermes had arrived, laden down with books he would no doubt read before Christmas even approached, to use for referencing in his homework assignments.

"Men," Rhona said darkly, glowering at Hermes. Hermes sank into his chair as Rhona focused her eyes sharply on him. "Who are you going to the Ball with?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Why not? You didn't even _ask_ anyone, did you, you just said you did so you didn't have to say yes to Norah," Rhona said shrewdly.

"No, I didn't. I'm not telling you because—because you'll make fun of me," Hermes said, flushing the same colour crimson as his tie. "And I left my Rune dictionary upstairs."

"I bet it's that Isabelle girl, from Beauxbatons," Rhona said, narrowing her eyes at Hermes as he determinedly searched the stacks of books he'd brought down from his dormitory.

"It is not."

"Yolande, then, you like _her_ smile."

"Yolande, Isabelle and Cécile are all going together as a group so they're not limited to one dance partner all evening," Hermes said, searching under the coffee table, where Crookshanks was playing with Butterbeer corks.

"Oh, so you _did_ ask her?" Rhona shot at him.

"No, he didn't—I knew that too," Harriet said. "Hermes, why don't you tell us who you're going with? We won't tease you." Hermes gave her a very sardonic look as he straightened up with his Rune dictionary.

"As sweet and honest as you sound, Harriet, I know you too well to take you at your word with stuff like this," Hermes said, flushing again as he clambered into his chair at a small round table near them.

"They're going as a _group_?" Rhona frowned, staring at Hermes, then Harriet.

"All this hassle of getting partners! Oh, why didn't _we_ think of that?" Harriet growled indignantly.

"_Eff_ that—Hermes, why didn't _you_ think of that?" Rhona shot at him, glaring.

"Because you wouldn't like the rumours it'd spark if you and Harriet opened the Ball dancing together," Hermes replied, shuffling papers about and setting to finish his Transfiguration essay.

"Oh. Right."

"True."

"Harriet…did you find yourself a partner?" Hermes asked quietly. Harriet shrank into her seat, focusing intently on her Herbology textbook.

"Er…yes. I did, yes."

"Oh. Who is it?" Hermes asked. Harriet shivered…_Draco Malfoy_, she meant to say, but the words never reached her lips; she squirmed and shuddered and curled up in her seat.

"Um…no one you know," she mumbled, and that was the honest truth.

_Oh God, I'm going to the Yule Ball with Draco Malfoy—I'll have to be _nice_ to him and _dance_ with him, in front of _other people_ all night…and be _nice_ to him…_

"…So who am _I _supposed to go to the Ball with?" Rhona pouted, folding up in a corner of the sofa. It was widely acknowledged that Rhona was _very_ pretty, and this being shunted by potential partners at every corner was doing something to her ego—injuring it. Harriet scribbled away at her Herbology essay, determined to get it out of the way before the hour's end, and also determined not to blurt out the name of her date. Rhona would never let her forget it. It would be best just to show up at the Ball with Malfoy; at least then Rhona would be so shocked she wouldn't be able to speak for hours, so they'd be able to get through the Ball without a scene… She frowned, casting around for ideas.

"What about Ernie Macmillan."

"He's going with Susan Bones."

"Michael Corner, in Ravenclaw, or Anthony Goldstein?"

"Both of 'em already have partners."

"What about _Dean_, then?" Harriet sighed heavily.

"He's planning on asking Parvati Patil," Hermes spoke up, tongue between his teeth as he scribbled notes, going through three books at once.

"What about—remember, that sixth-year who asked me, the first morning after McGonagall told us about the Ball," Harriet said. "McLaggen; you liked the look of him."

"You don't think _he_ already has a partner, do you?" Rhona asked, her smile sweetly acidic.

"I'd say McLaggen was a safe bet," Hermes said, looking annoyed suddenly. "He thinks you're very pretty."

"Settled!" Rhona said happily, and she set about her Divination homework with a small smile, humming, until McLaggen appeared, and promptly cornered him.

"Who're you going with?" Harriet murmured to Hermes, whilst Rhona was engaged in a corner with McLaggen, who looked thrilled he was going to the Ball with her. "I won't tell Rhona, if you don't want."

"I'm not telling you," Hermes flushed. "You'll never let me live it down."

"Fine. I supposed me and Rhona'll just have to make a huge scene when we find out at the Ball," Harriet grinned mischievously.

"And you?" Hermes said tartly. "Who're _you_ going with?"

"Oh, no, I'm not telling you," Harriet smirked. "You'll just have to find out at the Ball with everyone else, wont you?"

* * *

**A.N.**: Hehe!


	60. Dobby's Day Off

**A.N.**: I was really hyper when I was writing this (which, coincidentally, was about a year ago, when we had all the snow here in Hampshire! Maybe even longer, actually…) and I have to say, it's probably one of my favourites.

* * *

**Harriet**

Chapter Sixty

_Dobby's Day Off_

* * *

The only thing that distracted anyone from the upcoming Yule Ball was the notice posted in the Entrance Hall the Sunday after the dancing lessons—which Rhona would never let Harriet forget because Harriet had danced with _Malfoy_—to announce a Hogsmeade weekend, the following Saturday, the last Saturday of term before the holidays began.

Having now secured herself an escort for the Yule Ball, though feeling slightly ill and definitely fluish every time she thought about it or saw Malfoy, she put her bitterness about having a broken heart behind her—as much as a girl who could hold a grudge like no other could.

Having maintained that she wasn't going to the Ball at all, when Professor McGonagall had found her in the Charms corridor and shouted at her that she was disgracing the Hogwarts honour code by threatening not to participate, Harriet delighted in making her feel superbly stupid by telling her she was in fact going with a date—Draco Malfoy had cornered her later that afternoon to demand whether she had really been serious in asking him out, because he had desperately wanted to crush Pansy Parkinson's awkward advances "_before I have to be committed to St Mungo's—or Azkaban_."

But the Hogsmeade visit—Harriet did have _that_ to look forward to. She had received a letter from Remus asking if she would like to meet at the Three Broomsticks for lunch on the Hogsmeade Saturday, and the others had agreed. Harriet had written a long list of presents and other things she needed to buy in Hogsmeade (prevalent was a pair of shoes she needed to go with her dress robes, if indeed she was intending on actually making an entrance in the Great Hall on Christmas Eve).

Rumours of the Yule Ball spread around the school; the most ludicrous was that Dumbledore had ordered eight-hundred barrels of mulled mead from Madam Rosmerta—who, it transpired, had been invited to the Ball with a number of prominent figures in the Wizarding world, and including all of the families of the visiting students. But it was fact that Dumbledore had booked several acts to play at the Ball, one of whom was the Weird Sisters, a very popular musical group, and Lamia Baitmen, whose music mingled Muggle influences of _Within Temptation_, _Fleetwood Mac_, Eva Cassidy and a smidge of ABBA, and was very popular on _Muggle Matinee _and_ Nightfall With the Non-Magical_ as a crossover artist. Also, Lorcan d'Eath, a part-vampire singer, was said to be making an appearance to perform his hit song, 'Neck to You.'

Some of the teachers—Professor Flitwick, for example, had given up trying to teach their class anything, and had spent much of the last few lessons talking to Harriet about her splendid perfection of her Summoning Charm, and how her nonverbal magic was coming along. Other teachers weren't as generous—Professor Binns never deflected from ploughing through his notes, but as he paid less attention to them than they did to _him_, they spent all of their last History of Magic lesson on Friday playing chess and _Scrabble_, which Hermes had brought from home, and _Monopoly_, which Harriet loved.

McGonagall and Moody kept them working until the very last second of their lessons—though Moody did give each of them a Christmas candy-cane from Honeydukes each after completing a gruelling session on Master Duellists and their tactics, which they were to try to emulate during supervised duels in the classroom after the Christmas holidays. McGonagall paid Harriet a very big compliment for turning her guinea-pig into a lovely little bunny with a tufty white tail, which Harriet suspected had something to do with the fact that Harriet wouldn't be disgracing the name of Godric Gryffindor on Christmas Eve.

On Friday evening, after the Potions test on poison antidotes (which Harriet had received a remarkably _good_ grade on) and after most students had gone to bed, Dobby the house-elf appeared. He had shown himself several times and, though he got a few funny looks to begin with because of his strange attire, he was well-liked because he more often than not appeared with cakes or bottles of Butterbeer and was so likeable that nobody looked down on him.

"Harriet Potter, madam!" Dobby squeaked, his ears flapping.

"Hiya Dobby!" Harriet smiled; she was sprawled on the sofa with Rhona, and managed to heave herself up into a rudimentary sitting position, sucking on the candy-cane Moody had given her. "How are you?"

"Dobby is _very well_, miss," Dobby squeaked happily. "Dobby is come to ask you, miss—Dobby has his day off tomorrow, you see—and Dobby is wondering if Harriet Potter wouldn't object to Dobby accompanying her and Madam Rhona and Master Hermes into Hogsmeade."

"Of _course_ we wouldn't mind!" Hermes beamed.

"We're meeting some people at the Three Broomsticks for lunch," Harriet said, "and you're welcome to join us." Dobby's ears flapped.

"Dobby has been saving his earnings for Christmas, Harriet Potter," he beamed. "He intends to buy Winky a new frock."

"Is she still not doing well?" Harriet asked concernedly: Winky's alcoholic antics (she'd been abusing Butterbeer, which had the same effect on house-elves as firewhiskey did on wizards when taken in excess) were known to Harriet and Rhona; Hermes had been down to the kitchens several times to try and comfort Winky, but to no avail.

"No, madam, Winky is still having trouble adjusting," Dobby sighed sadly. "But Dobby is hoping Winky will be better soon."

"Good, it's good if you keep encouraging her," Hermes said, nodding and smiling.

"Well—Dobby must return to the kitchens, for he will be missed!" Dobby squeaked. "We is beginning to ice the Christmas cakes, and it is all hands on decks for the mince-pies and puddings! So much work, Dobby has never seen the like before Hogwarts!"

"We'll see you tomorrow then," Harriet smiled.

"Yes madam, Dobby will perhaps meet you in the Entrance Hall?" Dobby squeaked hopefully.

"Alright. After breakfast?" Dobby grinned, wagged his ears, bowed and disappeared; in his place, on the coffee-table, appeared a large platter of freshly-baked mince pies that filled the room with the smell of _Christmas_, and several jugs of iced milk to drink with the mince pies.

"Nice bloke, Dobby," Fred remarked, scooping up two mince pies and a goblet of milk. "Strange, but nice."

"The best are," George smiled, beaming at his twin amorously; Fred fluttered his eyelashes and looked highly flattered.

* * *

As discussed, Dobby met them in the Entrance Hall after a late breakfast: he had bought himself a _coat_, and was extremely proud of it, and impervious to the laughs of the other students who weren't as accustomed to him as the Gryffindors were. They had to walk through about three foot of snow down the lawn, which Hermes cleared away by issuing a stream of hot steam from the tip of his wand, and Dobby was only visible by the Christmas bauble he had tied to the loop of his tea-cosy.

Hogsmeade had turned into its annual Christmas card by the time the last Saturday came: Snow was piled up a foot high against the walls of the cottages and shops, the diamond-paned windows glowing amber. Wreaths and garlands were everywhere, the spruce tree in the square was trimmed beautifully and it was snowing gently as they walked through the village. Sirius was beside himself with glee, bounding around in the snow and spraying them all with it, barking loudly.

Harriet had had _inspiration_ and asked the woman behind the counter in Honeydukes to put individual chocoballs into the pretty little gift-boxes they supplied, with a miniature candy-cane, enough for every Durmstrang and Beauxbatons student (including Florent, even though Harriet despised him). She bought a large gift-box of all the different kinds of Honeydukes chocolate bars for Remus and a large selection of Honeydukes sweets for Kreacher—who was not forgotten, not when one of his brethren stood gazing through the glass of the chocoball counter with glazed eyes, positively drooling—and a selection of Muggle boiled sweets in the _Muggle Novelty_ section for Professor Dumbledore, as he had always had a liking for them.

Padfoot had had to stay outside when they entered Honeydukes, but a big chunk of peanut brittle from the bag Harriet had bought for him placated him: Dobby's ears waggled so furiously with glee as he ate an enormous cream-filled chocolate that his tea-cosy almost fell off, and they made their way to the stationers because Hermes needed more rolls of parchment—"It's because you _write_ too much, Hermes; if you were a devoted underachiever like _us_, you'd be fine!"—and Harriet had a lot of fun picking out Christmas cards that smelled of whatever the picture was on the front—gingerbread men, Christmas pudding, decorated spruce trees, and special-effects wrapping paper (penguins that karked happily and slid over the snow and ice on their stomachs, reindeer whose sleigh-bells jingled every time the paper moved, edible paper that tasted like marzipan, angels that flew around with diaphanous silver wings, stars that burst like miniature silver fireworks). She bought bottles of sparkling gold and shimmering silver inks and grinned as Rhona reprimanded Hermes for spending so much money on thick rolls of parchment.

In light of the Yule Ball, whilst Hermes made his monthly visit to _Flourish_ _and_ _Blotts_, the girls entered _Madam Primpernelle's Salon_ to refill their orders. Anything Rhona subtly replaced on the shelf because she couldn't afford it, having used the last of her World Cup vouchers during her last visit, Harriet placed in her little lilac basket (which Sirius carried delicately in his mouth by the handle) for stocking-stuffers. There was a display of very lovely, very _ordinary_ teacups, and Harriet asked whether they had any magical qualities before asking for one of the teacups, a pale lilac one with violets painted onto it, to be put into a gift box, and in the Post Office she sent it to Aunt Petunia with a selection of chocolates for Uncle Vernon and a pretty handbag for Daisy. Harriet _loved_ Christmas—especially when she had money to spend and friends to spend it with.

In _Gladrags_ they split up; a display of Christmas stockings stood in pride of place just inside the door and one of them, which was black and decorated with dozens of mini socks in all different patterns, reminded Harriet so much of Dobby, who was enquiring about a house-elf sized dress from a saleswitch, that she remembered she hadn't written anything down on her list of presents for him. She and Rhona, who had been eyeing the accessories counter and display, had a fabulous time picking out socks and a Christmas jumper for Dobby, and since Sirius was frisking around in the snow with Colin Creevey, Harriet took out the measurements she'd written down and the manager made the necessary adjustments to two sets of smart men's robes. This took long enough that Rhona lost interest and went upstairs by the rickety spiral staircase to the shoe and dress robes department.

"Alright, I'm only buying _one_ pair of shoes!" Harriet declared, lugging her shopping basket upstairs, catching sight of Dobby going through racks of lovely children's dress robes for Winky. But it was impossible to step upstairs in _Gladrags_ and not fall in love with five pairs of shoes every time. Harriet gasped softly and zoomed straight to a shimmering pair of matte gold high heels on one of the bottom racks.

"Finest python skin, madam," said the saleswitch, pulling them off the shelf and handing them to Harriet. Harriet gazed, awed. They were _beautiful_.

"The Parselmouth in me would be absolutely honoured to see such a beautiful pair of shoes made of snakeskin," Harriet sighed, Rhona walking up with a little pair of cream heels to go with her lacy dress robes. Harriet frowned. "Or utterly mortified. Oh well…"

She added them to her basket after trying them on, with a gorgeous pair of strappy hot fuchsia stiletto sandals with large asymmetrical bows over the toes, embellished with brilliant diamantes, and a deep royal-purple pair of strappy heels with florets on the top of the foot. Rhona had to coax Harriet away from the shoe department, baiting her with a pair of glittery ruby-red heels. After paying for her hoard of goodies, which included new sets of pyjamas for herself and Rhona (though she didn't know it yet) Padfoot tugged Harriet over to the Apothecary—Rhona taking Dobby to visit Zonko's and the yarn shop. In the High Street, Padfoot rooted for a newspaper clipping he had slipped into Harriet's bag early last night, took it carefully in his teeth and strode into the shop and up to the counter.

"Er—Good morning, miss," the sales-assistant said nervously, giving Harriet a strained smile. Padfoot still scared people who weren't accustomed to him.

"Sorry—he's very well behaved, I promise," Harriet smiled, taking the clipping from Sirius.

"How can I help you?" the wizard asked. Harriet handed the advertisement.

"I saw this in the _Daily Prophet_ and I was wondering whether you could pay for the potions on behalf of someone else," Harriet said. Technically, Sirius was paying for the year's supply of Wolfsbane subscription for Remus, but considering he was a dog…

"Of course," the wizard said. "Especially this potion. Usually family-members, it's so expensive."

"And will the first delivery be on the doorstep by the week before the full moon?" Harriet asked.

"Mm…" The wizard checked the calendar, which marked the moon's progress. "Not this month, I'm afraid; we've already missed the full moon."

"Oh, that's right," Harriet remembered; full-moon had been on the second; they'd made notes in Astronomy as to the occurrence of the blue moon at the end of December, the second full moon in the same month. "I thought there was a blue moon this month."

"Oh. Yes. We could start the supply beginning on Christmas Eve," said the wizard, checking his calendar again. Harriet asked a few more questions on price and postage, filled out some paperwork for delivery purposes, and exchanged Sirius's gold for the confirmation certificate for a year's supply of Wolfsbane Potion, delivered to the door at the beginning of each week preceding the full moon.

In _Dervish and Banges_, Harriet paid for a beautiful brown-leather briefcase embossed in gold with _R J Lupin_ on the top for Remus's present from _her_, and a very lovely daily planner for Norah that featured a picture and information on a new magical plant every day. She bought a pamphlet-designing kit for Hermes, which she knew he would appreciate for S.P.E.W., and when she had crossed the last present off her list (a brand-new publication by _Witch Weekly_ of their best home-recipes, for Mrs Weasley) in _Flourish_ _and_ _Blotts_ (hiding a 365-day crossword book for Sirius from him), Rhona and Dobby joined her, escaping a group of Slytherins intent on a snowball ambush. They found Hermes sitting in a corner with an enormous volume on Ancient Runes and, grumbling, managed to pull him away from the bookshop, in favour of the crowded Three Broomsticks.

They waved to everyone they knew, grinning—Aleksey and Irina had apparently got over their little game and were kissing in a booth, whilst Yolande and Isabelle and Cécile were going through _Witch Weekly_ for the article Harriet had seen on _Madam Primpernelle's_, which also had a coupon, drinking their way through a bottle of wine, and Fred and George were sitting in a tight circle with Sasha and Gérard, poring over parchment with several lumpy-looking packages tucked neatly under their table. Norah beamed and waved over from her table with Dmitry, Valentin and Elizaveta—and Madam Rosmerta pointed them to the private parlour that had been secured by "cheeky Nymphadora!"

Tonks met them at the door of the parlour; evidence of her route through the room was marked by Remus righting a chair and cleaning up spilt wax from the round, highly-polished table in the middle of the room. Today Tonks's hair was a shocking electric-blue, coiled into pinned ringlets like sausages that bounced every time she moved. She grinned at Dobby, who looked just as eccentric as she was behaviourally and Remus looked tired, but happy, as he greeted each of them with a hug and shook Dobby's hand; Padfoot offered his paw to Remus, which he shook, a tired smile of familiarity warming Remus's face. Tonks and Dobby being present, Sirius couldn't transform, but seemed contented just to sit by Remus's side and just enjoy each other's company.

Then Hermes pulled Remus into a discussion about werewolf rights with Dobby chiming in about what house-elves had to endure with very few rights at all—practically any. Rhona and Harriet (who joined in begrudgingly) spoke excitedly of the upcoming Yule Ball to Tonks.

"We're both coming, aren't we, Remus? He's invited me," Tonks grinned.

"I think, actually, you invited yourself," Remus said thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling.

"I don't hear you complaining about escorting me," Tonks smirked.

"I'm not allowed to complain—it's one of her rules," Remus sighed, catching Harriet's eye and winking. Tonks grinned mischievously.

"You have _rules_? What're the others?" Harriet laughed, grinning. Padfoot was glancing quickly from Remus to Tonks and was barking with laughter. Remus reached into an inside pocket of his robes and handed her a folded piece of parchment, which apparently Tonks had written on because the handwriting was spiky and a little messy, a contrast to Remus's neat script.

_Rule Number One: Remus is never allowed to mention the__ w-word in a negative sense—they can be very sexy beasts, and we all have our little problems._

_Rule Number Two: Remus is never allowed to mention the words 'dangerous,' 'poor' or 'old' in an argument, because he is none of the above._

_Rule Number Three: Remus has no right to assume that any child of his would undoubtedly be a 'w' should he reproduce._

_Rule Number Four: Remus should learn to relax._

_Rule Number Five: Remus will learn to act on his heart's desires_.

"What's this about Remus reproducing?" Harriet said, glancing up and smirking, catching Remus's eye. He blushed, looking exasperated and amused at the same time. Harriet glanced from Remus to Tonks, who was grinning and rereading the rules she had written.

"Are _you_ _two_ _going_ _out_?" Rhona blurted, gaping.

"You are so slow sometimes, Rhona," Hermes sighed, glancing up from his conversation with Dobby about house-elf history.

"I finally managed to persuade Remus to go out for drinks with me," Tonks whispered confidentially to Harriet and Rhona; Remus rolled his eyes amusedly and turned to Sirius, murmuring in his ear, to Sirius's barking amusement.

"When?"

"Just before we came to see you in the first task," Tonks grinned at Harriet. "He wanted to keep it quiet for a bit, though, I think."

"_Why_?" Tonks glanced over at Remus, who was still murmuring to Padfoot.

"Think he didn't want to tell people, in case he got his hopes up and it didn't work out," Tonks said, suddenly uncharacteristically solemn. "But I'm not going anywhere."

"That's really…cool," Harriet smiled. "Are you going to get Remus to dance at the Ball?"

"Hopefully," Tonks grinned cheekily.

"Come on, we'll teach you the steps!" Harriet said, grinning and jumping out of her seat, tugging on the red sequined heels, which Tonks greatly admired—"they've got them in acid-blue, too!" she said, grinning at Tonks's hair—and set out to teach Tonks the steps to the dance.

"Where did you learn that dance, Harriet?" Remus asked, glancing up from Dobby's story of Harriet setting him free to watch her sail around the room with Rhona, who was acting as the bloke.

"Madame Maxime, she taught everyone in fourth year up how to dance last Saturday," Harriet said, Rhona twirling her around and groaning when she tried to dip Harriet and had to haul her upright again.

"Lily used to dance—she made Prongs go to ballroom-dancing lessons after they left Hogwarts," Remus smiled. "They were very good, too. I think there should be a film reel of them dancing somewhere—perhaps in that box of things Bathilda sent you." When Tonks kept tripping over their feet and her own, Remus thought it best not to allow her to continue maiming herself, and Remus went down to the bar to ask for lunch to be sent up.

"Cornelius Fudge is down there," Remus said, giving a strained smile as he returned, "with Rufus Scrimgeour and Kingsley Shacklebolt." He kept the door open and several steaming tureens drifted into the room. "They're talking to Barnabas Cuffe."

"The Editor of the _Daily Prophet_?" Harriet said, glancing away from the table, which was spreading itself with a fine white linen tablecloth and cutlery. "Whatever for?"

"Bertha Jorkins, by the sound of it," Remus sighed, settling down and doling out tender beef stew with thick, beer gravy. "They're very lucky they've got through to Cuffe—if he keeps on allowing Rita Skeeter to do as she pleases, she'll start making a panic about Voldemort, if they're not careful."

"Scrimgeour's sent a team to Albania to liaise with the Aurors there," Tonks said, upsetting the jug of Butterbeer all over Hermes' lap. "Whoops! Sorry!" She pointed her wand and the Butterbeer dried up. "Yeah—the Aurors are trying to see what they can find out."

"I doubt there'll be much to find," Remus said heavily. "Bertha had a habit of never knowing when to keep quiet—she used to get into trouble for it at school. I'm sure something of the same's happened."

"Well, all the same, she's a Ministry witch, isn't she," Tonks tutted. "Top priority and all that, 'specially after what Skeeter's had to say."

"Who're Kingsley Shacklebolt and Rufus Scrimgeour?" Harriet asked interestedly.

"They're both Aurors," Tonks smiled. "Scrimgeour's Head of Department and Kingsley's a Senior Auror, he's a little higher up than me, I only just qualified in September. Kingsley's the one in charge of the manhunt for Sirius Black."

Harriet choked on her Butterbeer; Hermes shot her a warning look as he thumped her on the back. She was spluttering away when she glimpsed movement right beside the fireplace. A quivering nose and whiskers and a tattered ear, looking _right at them_.

Harriet knew two things: She knew Madam Rosmerta did _not_ have rats. And she knew exactly what Scabbers looked like, after having spent three years with him sleeping in her bedroom.

"I s'pose I'd better go and say hello…" Tonks sighed, "if I ever want that promotion!" She ran a hand through Remus's hair and stomped to the stairs, leaving the parlour door open; they heard her yelp as she tripped somewhere near the bottom and Remus rolled his eyes, shaking his head. Harriet stooped on the pretext of rummaging through her bags and pulled out her wand, and thought _Stupefy!_ The jet of red light hit the fireplace: the rat formerly known as Scabbers squealed and started skittering frantically around the room.

"Harriet, what's going on—?"

"Scabbers!—Wait! Wormtail? _Stupefy_!"

"_Stupefy_!" But Wormtail dodged their Stunners and slipped between Padfoot's paws, and slipped through the open door. Remus leapt into action, jumping to the stairs and illuminating the stairwell with blinding blue-white light.

"Dobby, don't let him Disapparate!" Harriet said, running down the stairs as Wormtail the man was morphing back into human form as he reached the bottom of the stairs, screaming. Harriet in the lead, following Padfoot, who was haring after Wormtail, closely tailed by Remus, Dobby racing behind them, eyes narrowed on Wormtail's balding head, they darted into the main room—"_Expelliarmus!_" she roared, and the wand Wormtail had pulled out of his coat and was blasting a path through the tables with soared out of his reach: each of them with their wands out, they all started firing Stunners and hexes indiscriminately as Wormtail crashed through the crowd, followed by Padfoot, upsetting table after table, tripping and falling, scrambling to his feet, screaming when Rhona hit him with a Bat-Bogey Hex; Yolande screamed as she was thrown to the floor by Wormtail and was bitten by Padfoot, who had snapped his jaws a second too late where Wormtail's ankle had been; three bands of diaphanous blue-white light appeared around Wormtail, Dobby holding his fist tight as if holding onto reins: Wormtail ran blindly, screaming; everyone else was on their feet, the noise disrupted, people firing curses in retaliation to what they thought was a random attack—

"_VALENTIN—GET HIM!_" Harriet bellowed, jumping over tables and crashing down to the floor, firing a hex at Wormtail's fleeing form. He ran past Valentin's table: it happened in a split-second: Valentin had surged to his feet, grabbed Wormtail by the throat with one hand and thrown him to the floor on his back with such force that the entire building trembled.

It went suddenly very quiet, as Padfoot morphed mid-jump into Sirius and grabbed a wand from the nearest witch, pointing it down at Wormtail with Remus.

"Hello Peter," Sirius said darkly, glaring down at Wormtail.

"_SIRIUS BLACK_!" the woman whose wand Sirius had stolen screamed, and there was instant uproar.

"_Sonorus_!—_BELT UP EVERYONE_!" Harriet bellowed, wand pointed to her throat. "_Quietus_!" Silence fell, then with a lot of bluster Cornelius Fudge came running over with Tonks, Rufus Scrimgeour and Kingsley Shacklebolt and Barnabas Cuffe (Harriet didn't know who was who).

"What has happened here? What is the meaning of this display, Harriet?" Fudge demanded. "Shacklebolt, Scrimgeour, Miss Tonks—arrest that man!"

"_YOU STAY AWAY FROM MY GODFATHER_!" Harriet shouted, no longer needing the Sonorus Charm for everyone to hear her; the pub was silent. She held her wand out threateningly, glowering.

"Who's that?" Tonks asked, frowning down at the man whimpering on the floor, Dobby's bands of light still drifting around him, his face still covered with Bat-Bogeys.

"Oh!" Rhona said, as everyone turned their wands onto Sirius. She cleaned up the Bat-Bogeys, revealing Wormtail.

"Minister, I think you may recognise Peter Pettigrew," Harriet said tartly, giving him a very vicious smile.

* * *

**A.N.**: Mwahahahaha-ahahahahaha! Cliff-hanger.


	61. Sirius Substantiated

**A.N.**: Okay, because _Marlicat_ and her sister are so incessant! Another chapter!

* * *

**Sirius Substantiated**

* * *

"_Peter Pettigrew_?" Whispers started circulating through the inn; people gasped and craned their necks; Valentin had to stand to prevent people from surging forwards onto the circle they had created around Pettigrew.

"It's not possible," Fudge gasped, staring down at Pettigrew, wide-eyed.

"Not _probable_," Rhona remarked.

"I seem to remember telling you that Pettigrew was in fact _alive_ less than a year ago," Harriet said thoughtfully, glancing at Hermes. "Am I correct?"

"Inescapably," Hermes nodded. Scrimgeour and Shacklebolt still had their wands on Sirius: Harriet stepped in front of Sirius and glared stoutly at the Head of the Auror Department and the Senior Auror responsible for the manhunt of Sirius Black.

"Observe his hand, if you will, Minister, you'll notice he's missing a finger," Remus said, kicking Wormtail's hand. The three Aurors and Fudge stooped and examined Wormtail's hand, his missing finger.

"Good _God_, they're right!"

"We _told you_ in June that Peter Pettigrew was an Animagus," Harriet said, frowning at Fudge, injustice riling in her stomach. "And you didn't believe us. He cut his finger off before he blasted the street open, killing all those Muggles, and then he transformed into a rat and escaped into the sewer-system. _Isn't that what we told you_? That Peter Pettigrew had been my parents' Secret Keeper, with Sirius as the decoy, and _he betrayed them to Voldemort_."

"I…But—Pettigrew—it…there was no evidence!" Fudge gasped, his eyes very round as he played with the brim of his lime-green bowler-hat.

"Well, here it is now," Remus said, nudging Wormtail. "I'm sure several drops of Veritaserum would tell you everything you wanted to know—although I suspect Harriet, Rhona and Hermes would be more than willing to tell the story again."

"I—this—extra_ordinary_!" Fudge panted, staring from Wormtail to Sirius to Remus and back. "I—Scrimgeour, the Dementors must be alerted." Harriet bristled; she felt Sirius tense behind her.

The door of the Three Broomsticks opened and Professor Dumbledore, his hair and beard encrusted with snow, his hand in a bag of Honeydukes sweets, dipped his hat under the door as he entered. He glanced around, saw what a horrendous mess the inn was, and raised his eyebrows. "Oh, dear. Have I missed the party?" He swept over to the cluster and peered over Rhona's shoulder at Wormtail lying on the floor.

"Ah. Apprehended Peter Pettigrew again, have you, Harriet?" he chuckled softly. "Excellent. Rosmerta, a flagon of mead, if you please."

"Er…Dumbledore?" Fudge stammered, looking utterly bewildered. "You have just stumbled upon the scene of a crime and you want mead?"

"Well, why not? The way forward from here seems very straightforward—Peter Pettigrew will be escorted to Azkaban by the Dementors, and I am sure there will be an in-depth enquiry as to why Sirius Black was thrown into Azkaban without trial thirteen years ago," Dumbledore shrugged, smiling at Rosmerta as she shakily handed him a frothy flagon of mulled mead.

"I—_what_? I…Yes…Yes, that does sound…Scrimgeour, the Dementors," Fudge said weakly, staring down at Wormtail.

"You there—with the camera," the man beside Tonks called, and Harriet noticed he had been scribbling everything down on a small notepad; Colin Creevey jumped up from a tangle of Gryffindor third-years staring avidly at Harriet from the floor, where their table had been upset. "I want photographs. Wormtail, and Black and Potter together, and the others as well—get the elf, too!" Colin grinned infectiously as he started snapping away with his camera. Barnabas Cuffe took their names—"You'll be a Weasley, yes?" "Dobby, sir, Dobby the free house-elf." "Hermes Granger, Founder of the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare." "Valentin Romanov." "And you were injured trying to waylay the villain, dear girl, oh, that looks painful! Yolande Doré, you say? You wouldn't be related to Auriville Doré of the French Ministry of Magic?" "Remus Lupin."—and Kingsley Shacklebolt, the tall, bald black man with one gold hoop earring and a deep, slow, reassuring voice, and Rufus Scrimgeour, the one who looked like a lion, put several charms on Wormtail to prevent him from escaping whilst they awaited the arrival of the Dementors.

"You're free," Harriet whispered to Sirius, who was shivering with many varied emotions. He gave her a wide, handsome grin, and grabbed her in an enormous hug, before tensing. Harriet felt them too; the cold crept into her very heart, freezing everything, plunging thousands of iced knives into her insides, rendering all hope, every happy thought incapable of survival. She glanced over Sirius's shoulder and saw them, two tall, cloaked Dementors drifting into the inn.

Everyone fell silent, several people whimpered and one person choked back a scream; the Dementors headed straight for _Sirius_. _No, he's innocent—he's innocent, and everybody knows it—Sirius is _free_, _Harriet thought, and that thought consumed her, she didn't even have to distinguish one single happy memory, blocking all effects of the Dementors, making her burn with an inner radiance that made Sirius loosen up;

"_Expecto Patronum_!" she grinned from ear-to-ear, and several people gasped as something silvery erupted from her wand. Harriet jumped back, her eyes widening, as something _else_ erupted from her wand, another silvery thing. Prongs lowered his antlered head and pawed the ground, daring the Dementors to come closer; a lovely silver doe trotted soundlessly back and forth, blocking the Dementors' access to everyone but Peter Pettigrew, who lay bound, crying now.

"Remus, what's—?" But Remus just stared at her, even as warmth rushed back to everyone sitting on the other side of the doe's line, the lamps relit and the fire burst back into life in the enormous fireplace. Dobby relinquished his hold on Pettigrew with a snap of his fingers, Wormtail crying between the two Dementors, who had each taken an arm with their rotted hands and Harriet watched their effects drain all the life out of Pettigrew when Fudge ordered them to seize him. Colin's camera clicked again several times—at Pettigrew between the Dementors, at the _two_ silver Patronuses Harriet had called upon, and at Sirius Black.

"Shacklebolt, Miss Tonks, you will accompany Mr Black back to Azkaban, where he will await trial—"

"He bloody well effing _won't_!" Harriet snarled, pointing her wand at the Minister for Magic, throwing herself back in front of Sirius as the Dementors disappeared through the door, accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour.

"Miss Potter, it is for the Minister to decide—"

"You're not taking him back to Azkaban—you locked Sirius in there for twelve years when he was _innocent_, you're not taking him away from me, not again." Rhona, Hermes and Remus all turned their wands on the Minister and his Aurors, and even Dobby balled up his fists, crouching defensively in front of them all.

"I've got to take him—he must give evidence in trial, I cannot have him gallivanting around England, doing as he pleases until the Wizengamot has come to its decision," Fudge glowered back.

"You're _not taking him_."

"Minister, if you will allow me, I believe I may suggest a compromise to everyone's benefit," Dumbledore said, striding up with his flagon of mulled mead, smiling serenely.

"Very well, very _well_!" Fudge said irritably; he obviously didn't like being undermined by a fourteen-year-old girl.

"Allow Mr Black to remain at Hogwarts under my watch," Dumbledore smiled. "I assume, Sirius, you will have no problems with that arrangement?" Sirius, his arms slung around Harriet, the witch's wand returned, nodded, beaming.

"Very well, Black, you will remain at Hogwarts under Dumbledore's guard," Fudge said irritably.

"You know what I'm looking forward to now?" Harriet said, grinning up at Sirius.

"What's that, blossom?"

"The _enormous_ Christmas present you're going to buy me with all that _compensation_ you'll be paid," she grinned, and Rhona laughed. Hermes looked mildly disapproving, but too involved with Barnabas Cuffe taking Dobby's details, and how his magic had worked to ensure Pettigrew didn't Disapparate.

"And where are you going to put your big shiny medal?" Rhona asked, to general chortling as people started to recover from shock. "And _where_ are you going to hang your Order of Merlin, First Class?"

"You too, Remus, what're you going to do with your rewards?" Harriet grinned at Remus, who just chuckled softly and shook his head. "I mean, it's because of you _and_ Sirius that we found out in June that Pettigrew was culpable for my parents' murders." She caught Fudge's eye and grinned at her two older male friends.

"Come here, dear," Madam Pomfrey sighed; she had had the day off, as unusually she had no casualties to attend to, and Sirius winced in sympathy as Yolande was helped off the floor.

"Oh, I'm really sorry about that," he said, wincing, and squatted down beside Yolande, eyeing the gash on her leg where he'd accidentally bitten her.

"Eet eez not a problem, eet does not 'urt," Yolande said, waving a hand expressively, and Harriet noticed her eyes never wavered from Sirius's face, drinking in his excrutiatingly handsome features.

"I was going for Pettigrew," Sirius said, and Harriet noticed something sparking in Sirius's light-grey eyes as he glanced up at her. "Normally I have a very sweet disposition as a dog."

"Yes, indeed—more than once James recommended you make the change permanent," Remus said, and several people sitting, staring around them laughed.

"The tail I could live with," Sirius said thoughtfully, catching Harriet's eye and grinning. "But the fleas, they're murder!"

"There you go, dear," Madam Pomfrey said, having bandaged Yolande's leg and repaired her thick cotton tights. "No extraneous activity for a few days."

"Sank you very much, Madame," Yolande said, flexing her leg and smiling. She beamed at Sirius. "See—no 'arm done!"

"Sorry—" Barnabas Cuffe interrupted, looking very eager. "Mr Black, you wouldn't care to make a statement, would you?"

Sirius looked long and hard at the man, then glanced over his shoulder to Harriet. "What do you think? Give him the whole exposé?"

"Better him than Skeeter," Harriet grinned.

"Very well—I'll talk," Sirius grinned handsomely. "If you're all done waffling, Minister, can we return to the private parlour for pudding?"

"I…what? Yes, er—I suppose so," Fudge said, blinking very quickly, as Harriet scoffed in amusement.

* * *

Harriet didn't think she'd ever been part of a stranger dinner party. Alongside Rhona, Hermes, Remus and Sirius sat Dobby the house-elf, Colin Creevey, who was still taking photographs, Yolande and Valentin, Barnabas Cuffe, scribbling everything down so quickly he took up so much parchment he had to borrow some from Hermes, with promises he'd be repaid, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Madam Rosmerta, who had known Sirius as a boy and wanted to hear how he had been wrongly accused for the murder of his best-friend, and how come Harriet knew him so well, and several Hogsmeade visitors—Madam Bones, who had come by Hogsmeade to visit her niece Susan Bones, who was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, who wanted to know the proceedings when Sirius had been arrested thirteen years ago, and how he had come to have no trial—which opened a can of flobberworms, because it transpired Mr Crouch had locked Sirius away, which led Hermes to rant about how horrible he was and the prejudices he had against everyone in general, especially house-elves—and Professors Dumbledore, Flitwick, McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey.

"You know what we have to do now, don't you?" Harriet said, sipping her cherry-syrup-and-vodka drink (which Sirius gave her permission to have for Madam Rosmerta, who'd given her a load of glace cherries to go with it) which was sweet and burned her throat at the same time, filling her with wonderful warmth that started in her stomach and went to the far reaches of her fingertips and toes.

"What's that?" Sirius asked, beaming lazily. Harriet jumped up and struck a pose, scattering honey-roasted cashews everywhere.

"Go _dancing!_" she shouted brightly, and several people in the room laughed.

"I think it would be prudent we all made our way up to the castle," Professor Dumbledore chuckled, checking a little gold pocket-watch. "It is almost dinner-time."

"Already?" Harriet gaped. Barnabas Cuffe was still scribbling the finer details of the Fidelius Charm offered by tiny Professor Flitwick.

"How time flies," Flitwick squeaked, beaming at Harriet: He had marvelled at her double Patronus—he said only a severe emotional shift could cause such a change, though it was extremely rare to retain one's old Patronus form also—"_Lily's Patronus was a doe, it was. Always a doe_," he had told her, having taught the Marauders and Lily Charms all that long while ago.

"Indeed!" Madam Rosmerta laughed, eyeing Harriet's drink. "It seems but yesterday I was pouring those for James and Lily." Madam Rosmerta flicked her wand and the empty glasses and bottles disappeared. Gradually, they all picked up their packages (those Dobby hadn't thoughtfully returned to their dormitories with a click of his fingers) and slowly, in the darkness lifted only by the thousands of fairy-lights around Hogsmeade, and their wands aglow, they made their way up to the castle.

"_BORN FREE, AS FREE AS THE WIND BLOWS AS FREE AS THE GRASS GROWS, BORN FREE TO FOLLOW YOUR HEART,_

_LIVE FREE AND BEAUTY SURROUNDS YOU THE WORLD STILL ASTOUNDS YOU, EACH TIME YOU LOOK AT A STAR,_

_STAY FREE, WHERE NO WALLS DIVIDE YOU YOU'RE FREE AS THE ROARING TIDE SO THERE'S NO NEED TO HIDE,_

_BORN FREE, AND LIFE IS WORTH LIVING BUT ONLY WORTH LIVING 'CAUSE YOU'RE BORN FREE_!"

"Shut _UP_!" Rhona shouted happily, laughing, and Sirius was roaring with laughter as Hermes and Harriet serenaded the owls startled out of their treetop homes because they were singing so enthusiastically, conducted by Dumbledore's wand. Dobby was still singing the words very passionately, and Hermes was laughing, tears streaming down their wind-chapped faces, that he should make 'Born Free' the anthem for S.P.E.W.

"You'd have to pay a heavy royalty!" Harriet laughed giddily. Rhona stooped and grabbed a handful of snow from the bank as they neared the castle, and chucked it at them because they'd started singing again: Sirius laughed so hard he fell over into the snow and very energetically made a snow-angel, laughing his head off. He was _free_.

McGonagall fell back to clamp his arm around hers and drag him back to the castle, talking very quickly and passionately about his Animagus transformation—and the transformations of James and Pettigrew—and in the Entrance Hall, Dobby swept everyone a very low bow (Harriet had promised him a set of dress robes, as a gift for helping them with Pettigrew) almost losing his bauble, grinned toothily at everyone, and skipped off to the door that led to the kitchens and the Hufflepuff common room.

"Now, Sirius, your house-arrest begins now—I suggest you yield to it and go and eat as many mince pies as you can," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling like the thousands of fairy lights that lit up the Hall. Slinging his arm around Harriet's neck, Sirius strode into the Great Hall.

"Aaaah…_Snivellus_," he said, tensing like a dog who'd scented his prey; Harriet glanced up and followed his narrowed-eyed gaze—he was grinning vindictively at Snape. "'Scuse me! I have some unfinished business to attend to."

"What're you going to do?" Hermes called after him, but Sirius was already loping down the Hall with a spring in his graceful gait.

"Come on, let's go and have dinner," Rhona said, grinning.

"But you've just had afternoon-tea," Hermes said after her, following her nonetheless to the Gryffindor table. Valentin waved and gave them all enormous grins.

"Is it true, Harriet?" Parvati breathed, jumping out of her seat and looking thoroughly excitable. "Sirius Black's _innocent_!"

"True as I'm standing here," Harriet grinned.

"And all this time we thought he was after _you_," Lavender stared. "When he really broke into Hogwarts to get that _man_!" Harriet clambered into her seat and glanced up at the staff table, and laughed.

Sirius was doing a rendition of Peeves' '_Oh Potter, You Rotter_,' dance, except singing something that Harriet couldn't hear, in a circle around Snape, to the amusement of everyone watching, as Snape's expression twisted more and more into that of pure fury. Halfway through her beef pie, Harriet put her cutlery down.

"I think I'd better go and get him before Snape curses him," she said, laughing, and ran up to the staff table, grabbing hold of Sirius's arm as he danced 'like an Egyptian'.

"Come on, Sirius."

"But I haven't finished my song yet," Sirius pouted.

"Come on, before you get hexed into oblivion—there's some people I'd like you to meet," Harriet said, tugging him down the steps and towards the Gryffindor table.

"But I already know everyone," Sirius said.

"True—but they don't know you. Fred, George," the Weasley twins glanced up; they had been in deep conversation with Aleksey, Sasha and Gérard again. "I would like you to meet Mr Padfoot."

It took five whole seconds for them to realise what she was saying. "_Padfoot? _You mean—_Padfoot_, as in—_Padfoot_!"

"Yup. My dad was Prongs," Harriet grinned mischievously. Fred and George exchanged a look then fell upon their knees at Sirius's feet, hailing him like he was a pharaoh.

"What're they…?"

"They found the Marauder's Map in Filch's office," Harriet murmured to Sirius, who had quirked his eyebrows and was looking down at Fred and George attempting to kiss his shoes with extreme amusement. "In their first year—they figured out how to work it, and they passed it on to me last year."

"Hang on—aren't you _Sirius Black_?" Seamus Finnigan said, frowning at Sirius. He, sitting with Dean, gaped. Whispers and then shouts spread through the Hall and everyone was craning their necks to get a look at the notorious mass-murderer who was sauntering amongst them, grinning from ear to ear and looking entirely relaxed, giving his loud bark-like laugh. But Valentin, and Yolande, and Norah and Colin Creevey all were zooming around the Hall, telling people what had happened in the Three Broomsticks.

"Harriet—my aunt told me you produced a Corporeal Patronus in front of two Dementors!" Susan Bones said, arriving from the Hufflepuff table to gape and then blush at Sirius, who grinned roguishly at her, sitting beside Yolande, with whom he had been speaking very fast French. "Is that true?"

"Go on, Harriet, show us!"

"Come on!"

"No, I don't want to—" Harriet blushed, embarrassed.

"Go on—I got pictures of them!" Colin said, grinning. "Show us again." Harriet caught Sirius's eye and beamed; she tugged out her wand, said clearly, "_Expecto Patronum_," and Prongs and Lily's doe erupted from the tip of it: the doe started prancing along the Gryffindor table; Prongs lowered his antlers and charged after her, chasing her around the Great Hall, down each of the tables, and then disintegrating out of the Entrance Hall.

"Everyone—shut up!" Seamus shouted, waving them silent; he was fiddling with the dial of his portable Wizarding wireless, onto _Nightfall with the Non-Magical—_

—"_The Minister of Magic interrupts this programme to announce that Sirius Black, the notorious mass-murderer, was apprehended at the Three Broomsticks this afternoon, having apprehended the wizard we all presumed to have been murdered thirteen years ago, Peter Pettigrew. After evidence was presented by Miss Harriet Potter, it was discovered that Sirius Black was not, in fact, responsible for the deaths of James and Lily Potter on the thirty-first of October, 1996, but that Peter Pettigrew was the traitor. Pettigrew now awaits trial in Azkaban, and Sirius Black is under the protection of Albus Dumbledore until he must give evidence in court for the Wizengamot—I repeat—Sirius Black is innocent.'_

"Look at Snape—he looks like he's going to be _sick_!" Rhona laughed, pointing out Snape. He looked shocked and furious and utterly loathsome of Sirius. But Harriet noticed Moody—he didn't look pleased, not pleased at all. Harriet assumed he must be annoyed that he hadn't been at the Three Broomsticks to apprehend Pettigrew.

* * *

**A.N.**: Okay, I've used up all the reserve chapters for this story, and I'm on a big Covenant kick right now, so it'll be a while until I get back into HP.


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